


What You Own

by Joanne_Barcia



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Drama, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 58,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joanne_Barcia/pseuds/Joanne_Barcia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Words and phrases like <i>fine needle aspiration</i> and <i>remission</i> and <i>recurrence</i> stick out to him, and for a fleeting moment, he's so sure this must be a dream.  But he knows enough about dreams to know what is real."  Or:  He might not make it to thirty, but he's trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1:  Impulse (Chapter 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF.net several months ago. (I've been importing work onto this account, I promise I'm not intentionally flooding the archive, haha!) Long term story that will likely take ages to complete, sorry in advance; maybe I'll have it done by the time I graduate college. But no promises. ;) 
> 
> Also: (I'm gonna get serious for a second, here.) This story, if you haven't already guessed, is going to deal with subject matter that is very heavy and, for some, very personal. The last thing I want to do is offend or upset anyone, so I ask that if there's something I write that's insensitive or otherwise offensive, please, _please_ let me know! I'd hate to make anyone uncomfortable or upset.
> 
> Alright, that said... This is meant to take place somewhere around mid-season 8, minus the Pelant arc. Strap in for the ride, I guess. Enjoy.

**_Part 1: Impulse_ _-_ a force acting on a body and producing a finite change of momentum.**

* * *

"Today is the sort of day where the sun only comes up to humiliate you."  
― Chuck Palahniuk, _Fight Club_

* * *

 Two (and a half) Days Before

He bolts up and nearly topples from his bed in the dark, and after a few moments of dazedly groping for his ringing cell phone, he clears his throat and answers.

"Lance Sweets," he mumbles, sleep still heavy in his voice. He rubs his eyes with the hand that's not holding his phone to his ear and blinks a few times. And when that doesn't wake him up at all, he gives up and just hopes that this conversation will be quick, and that he can go back to sleep soon.

If only.

"Oh, good, you're awake!" Seeley Booth's sarcastically cheery reply echoes through the phone.

Sweets glances at the alarm clock on the nightstand, and as the _3:30am_ shines back at him, he has to really try to hold back an irritated sigh.

"I am _now_ ," he answers, although it's not _quite_ true yet. And, although he's sure he already knows the answer to his own question, he continues by asking, "What's up?"

"Got a new case – a body found about an hour ago in Takoma."

"And I would be able to help you… how?" Sweets asks carefully, more than slightly confused. He's not normally called in when the body is found. It's usually the next day that he's notified about a case, when he finds the files and photos on his desk as soon as he comes in. This time, though…

"Well, a few of the teenagers who found the body are pretty freaked out. Not really talking, won't answer any of our questions. And we're not allowed to let them go home until we get their statements, so we need someone who actually knows what they're doing to come and calm them down. Plus, maybe you could take a look at the scene, see what you can deduce."

Sweets sighs. He went to bed – what, three hours ago? He's bone tired. Plus, he's been sick, and he's pretty sure he _really_ needs sleep. Still… if he's needed, he should go. Why drag someone else out of bed to handle it? He'll deal with it, maybe find some time to sleep later. Whatever.

"Fine," he says. "You'll have to give me some time, though. I'm, like, forty minutes away from there."

"Okay. But just so you know, if you get caught speeding, I can _probably_ get you out of it."

Sweets chuckles at that. "Nice. Okay, I'll see you in a bit."

He hangs up the phone and places it back on his nightstand before getting up from his bed. As he throws the covers off of himself, the cold air makes him seriously consider going back to sleep for _just_ a few more minutes. But no. He is a twenty-eight year old man with a steady job, not some high school student dreading a Monday morning. He can deal with being tired, and he can deal with the cold. He won't be happy about it, but he can deal with it.

The next fifteen minutes are spent rushing to get ready. After brushing his teeth, he changes into his suit as quickly as he can, pausing only to wonder when, exactly, his pants became so loose around his waist. Slightly confused, he pulls on his belt until the prong is a few inches past the last hole and wonders how that could have happened. And with a sigh, he realizes that the elastic probably stretched in the washing machine. It's an old pair of pants, anyway. That happens once in a while. The only belt he could find in his closet, on the other hand, is new. He bought it a few weeks ago, but it's just been sitting in his closet since then. He hasn't worn it.

And apparently, he bought the wrong size.

And that's just his luck.

With an irritated sigh, he considers finding something to poke a new hole in the belt with (He has a lot of practice doing that, having always been on the smaller side as a kid.) but decides against it. It would take too long, and he just doesn't have the time. He doesn't even have time to _think_ too long on any of this, so he just lets his pants sit there, uncomfortably loose on his hips. He makes a mental note to fix it later and continues getting ready.

After a few more minutes of running around and fumbling in the dark, he's ready enough and heading out the door. He writes a quick note to his roommates, sticks it on the kitchen table, and only just remembers his car keys before leaving the house.

He makes it to the scene in just under forty minutes, having only sped a _little bit_. (In truth, he probably could have driven a bit faster, considering that, at three in the morning, there are next to no cars on the road; but he's not really a speeder anyway. He doesn't have that sort of death wish.)

After parking his car on the side of the road opposite the crime scene, he gets out and walks over to the flashing lights and police tape. There are only a few cars parked on the street, though, probably because most of the people who were called to the scene have gone home. Now, in addition to the few remaining FBI agents doing last minute documentation, it's just Booth, the kids who found the remains, and a few parents. And, Sweets notes as he approaches them, no one seems at all cooperative.

"This is ridiculous!" one mother is shouting at Booth. "We've been here for hours, and there's no reason you can't take their statements in the morning! They're upset and need _sleep_!"

Visibly trying very hard to keep from shouting back, Booth calmly answers, "I know, ma'am. I'm sorry. Believe me, I'd be _glad_ to let you all go home, but we're not allowed to leave the scene until we have everyone's initial statements, okay? We've got a psychologist coming to talk to them as we speak, he's on his –"

"Right here," Sweets interrupts from behind the agent, raising his hand in a small gesture.

Booth sighs in relief. "He's right here," he finishes, and as Sweets begins to follow the parents back to their kids, Booth pulls him aside by his suit jacket for a brief second and mutters in his ear, "It's about time!" And as Booth releases him, Sweets just shrugs defensively and whispers back.

"I said I was forty minutes away – I made it in, like, thirty five!"

"It's been an hour since I called you."

"Well, did you expect me to show up in pajamas? 'Cause if that's what you wanted, then next time, I'll know better."

Booth sighs again, but before he can say anything else, another parent is impatiently shouting for them to hurry up.

The two look at each other with the same annoyed expression on their faces and, completely forgetting their momentary argument, walk over to the group of people.

Sweets turns to the parents.

"I'm sorry," he says. "But I'm going to have to ask you all to step away for a few minutes while I talk to them."

Though some of the parents are inclined to argue, they eventually cooperate. And after a few minutes alone with the four teenagers, Sweets is able to get them relatively calmed down and take their statements; to their parents' surprise, the teens were smoking and drinking when they found the body. Or, rather, they were _intending_ to start smoking and drinking. They figured the hilly wooded area behind an unoccupied house was the perfect place for all of this, but they never got the chance to start. As they started to walk down one of the steeper hills, they found the body, face up and only partially covered with dirt, autumn leaves and broken twigs.

"Alright," Booth says to the group. "You can all go home now. We'll contact you if we need any more information."

The parents, now caught between concern for their kids and anger over what they were doing, start ushering the teenagers into their cars, and within two minutes, they're all gone. Booth turns to Sweets.

"Alright, I think the crime scene is pretty straightforward," he explains. "But just take a look, see what's what."

Sweets nods. "Okay, just show me where it is."

They grab some flashlights from the other FBI agents as Booth dismisses them. Booth then leads Sweets to where the body was found, just past the top of one of the steeper hills on the lot. There are still markers sticking up from the loose dirt and scattered leaves, and there's even more police tape around here than around the perimeter of the area, which is saying something. Booth and Sweets shine their flashlights on the ground.

"Shallow grave," Booth explains. "Doesn't look like whoever did this put any effort into hiding the body."

Sweets nods in agreement. "Yeah…. So I'm assuming it's not premeditated. Otherwise, the body would probably be in an even more obscure place than this. I'm thinking the murder was either accidental, and the killer was panicking and hid the body in the first place they could find, or the killer was cognitively impaired when the murder took place and couldn't think of anything more inconspicuous."

"So, a complete accident, or the killer was drunk?" Booth clarifies, and Sweets tilts his head to the side a bit.

"Drunk, high, stoned, whatever impairs brain function. Which could be anything, I guess. I'm just throwing some ideas around, though - this isn't, like, a formal profile."

"Yeah, I know," Booth says. "Still, it might give me an idea of where to start. Thanks."

Sweets smiles and replies, "I'd say any time, but I'd rather not be called at three thirty in the morning next time there's a body…."

"Yeah, yeah. Come on." Booth gestures for Sweets to follow him back up to the street, and they start walking. And they almost make it to the top of the hill, too, before an unfortunately placed tree root gets in the way. It's Sweets' foot that gets snagged, and since he's been walking slightly in front of Booth, he ends up knocking Booth down with him when he loses his balance and falls, and they both end up tumbling to the bottom of the hill, cussing the whole way down.

Now covered in dirt, the wind knocked out of both of them, they just lay there coughing for a few moments. Then, as Booth pulls himself up of the ground, he starts to snap.

" _What the hell was that?_ " he seethes, dusting himself off.

"Sorry," Sweets coughs, still on the ground but slowly picking himself up. "Tripped on a tree branch or something. You okay?"

Booth, although he's still rather annoyed, reaches down and helps Sweets up off the ground. "I'm okay. You?"

"I'm good," Sweets answers, though he starts to doubt his answer when he feels the cold November air on his legs. He freezes. _Nope. No way._

"Uh… Booth?" he asks, blood rushing to his cheeks.

Booth, having turned around to pick his up his flashlight that he dropped when he fell, replies over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"My pants… are not… completely on my body, are they?" Sweets asks with a resigned sigh, although it sounds more like a statement because he already knows the answer.

More than slightly confused, Booth turns around and shines his flashlight at Sweets' ankles for a brief moment. Sure enough, the psychologist's pants are loosely gathered around his ankles as he stands awkwardly, with his hands held stiffly at his sides and a mortified expression on his face aimed toward the trees.

Booth restrains himself for the moment, clears his throat and simply answers, "Nope."

"Please tell me my underwear's still on…"

Booth shines his flashlight at Sweets' ankles for a second time and doesn't see anything other than the kid's pants.

"You're good."

Immediately, Sweets sighs in relative relief and scrambles to get his pants back on while Booth finally starts laughing.

"You know, Sweets," Booth chuckles. "They started making these really cool things called _belts._ You might want to invest in one."

Sweets flashes him an annoyed glare as he silently shows him the buckle of his belt that's still threaded through the loops on his pants. He makes a move to tighten the belt, but, remembering that he was already on the last hole, ends up just pretending to tighten it and calling it close enough.

Booth just continues to laugh.

"Hey, aren't you a bit old for the whole 'sagging pants' thing?" he cracks another joke, and Sweets just runs his hands down his own face.

"You're _so_ _funny_ , Booth," Sweets replies. " _Really_. Have you ever considered stand-up?"

"Already done it, remember? Either way, I'm funnier than _you_ are," Booth says, grabbing Sweets' shoulder and gently nudging him to start walking back up the hill. "And come on, you have to admit that was funny!"

"For you."

"For me. Seriously, that made my night."

Sweets stops walking for a second and incredulously glares at the back of Booth's head as the agent keeps walking.

" _I'm glad I could help."_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrible at writing cases. I am. But I suppose they're necessary. I'm not particulary fond of this chapter, but I figure I should finish the story before I nitpick, huh? Enjoy, review, you know the drill. ♥

* * *

"'How to Commit the Perfect Murder' was an old game in heaven. I always chose the icicle: the weapon melts away."  
― Alice Sebold, _The Lovely Bones_

* * *

 Two Days Before

Cam swipes her ID card across the scanner and, when the monitor beeps in approval, walks onto the platform where Brennan, Angela, and Wendell are already working on identifying the remains that were found. Markers stick up from the facial bones as Angela snaps pictures, and Brennan is starting to analyze the bones as Wendell brushes the last bits of dirt off of the victim's rib cage.

"Alright," Cam says, stretching a latex glove onto each hand. "How's everything going?"

Cue the rundown. Wendell looks up at her, puts his brush on a nearby tray, and answers, "Well, the bones are just about clean and Hodgins is getting time of death as we speak. In regards to the victim…"

Brennan swings the imaging scope over the bones and cuts him off. "In regards to the victim, the narrow pelvic inlet and the angled nasal bones suggest a Caucasian male. And, based on the remodeling, I'd say he was in his early to mid-thirties."

Turning to scribble a few notes onto a clipboard by the computer, Cam nods. "Okay…. I've taken the tissue samples, and the tox screen results should be back in a few days."

There are a few more shutter snaps from Angela's camera before the artist looks up at everyone and says that she has enough pictures to start a facial reconstruction. Cue her exit; and once she leaves the room to put the pictures into her computer, Wendell starts removing the markers from the skull, one by one. Once he's finished, he re-joins Dr. Brennan and continues to help analyze the bones.

"Could the damage to the skull point to a head injury being the cause of death?" he asks, closely eyeing the severe fractures along the entire right side. There are deep, widespread breaks, holes here and there where large chunks of bone had been broken off. The damage to the head seems to be the body's most prominent feature. That isn't to say, of course, that the rest of the damage is not also completely obvious.

Brennan slowly shakes her head.

"Not conclusively," she explains. "While at first glance it seems like the most serious injury sustained, we can't ignore the rest of the damage that could yield other possibilities. The striations along the entire right side of the body, for instance. Whatever caused those striations could have punctured a major blood vessel, or damage to other major organs. We have to look at _all_ of the possibilities, Mr. Bray."

Cue a humble acceptance as Wendell nods, offers a quick, "Of course," and continues to work.

Continues to work, that is, until Hodgins comes onto the platform a few minutes later, placing the time of death at about two weeks ago. The extreme decomposition, he says, was due to the bugs and animals in the surrounding area.

"Not to mention," he adds. "The recent humidity and the rain we had a few days ago."

Cam nods and just finishes writing that on her clipboard before Angela reappears with a missing person report in one hand and announces that she found an I.D.

Cue the case.

* * *

"Alright, got an I.D. on the victim," Booth announces as he enters Sweets' office with an air of motivation, a spring in his step, and a file in his hands. He is almost excited, because up until this point, the investigation has been going smoothly as ever; and he's hoping it will stay that way. There is nothing in the world nicer than a simple, straightforward case. Well, maybe there are a few things. But still – an open-shut case would be a gift.

Sweets turns from the computer he was working at and gets up to meet Booth by the doorway. Before he can start asking about the victim, though, Booth inspects him closely and changes the subject for a brief moment.

"Hey, you look _awesome_ ," he says, nodding his head with the slightest bit of concern and curiosity toward Sweets' pale face, where dark circles are just starting to form below his eyes. He flashes half a smile and continues. "Guess teenagers really _do_ need their sleep."

Sweets forces a sarcastic, irritated laugh. "Wow, _more_ hilarious jokes in one day. You're on a roll."

"I know. You okay?" Booth replies, placing the file down on the table in between the two couches and sitting down on one. Sweets sits down across from him.

"Yeah, yeah," Sweets answers quickly. "I mean, I've been sick, so don't touch anything, but it's fine."

Booth nods before turning his attention back to the case, speaking as Sweets reads along. "Alright, so our victim's name was Chase Miller. Thirty-five, married, white-collar job at an advertising company. He was reported missing by his wife about two weeks ago, right around the time he died."

After he finishes reading the whole report, Sweets closes the file and hands it back to Booth.

"Okay, nothing really looks suspicious," he says. "Nothing written _here_ does, at least."

"Exactly. I was thinking we'd go pay the family a visit, if you're up to it?"

Automatic, Sweets nods and waves his hand dismissively. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'll meet you downstairs in ten minutes?"

Booth's positive answer comes just as he's leaving the room, and soon Sweets is alone again with his tired eyes and a vague pain in his stomach and a miserable desire to just stay here and not go anywhere else today but home. He just automatically said he'd go, however – and it's too late to back out now.

With a sigh, he hurries to put the finishing touches on his previous assignment and gets ready to go, hoping that this will be fairly quick.

But since when is anything fairly quick anymore?

* * *

The woman who answers the door just seems to _know_. She opens the door, looks the two men up and down, and knows _exactly_ why they're there, because two suited men don't just show up at someone's door to say that everything is fine. Her face falls and she just stares for a few moments.

Then she shakes her head. "No," she says, almost pleading. "No."

Nervously pursing his lips for a moment, Booth slowly nods his head. He waits a few moments before answering. "I'm sorry. Can we come in?"

"Mommy?" a voice echoes through the hallway before the woman can answer. A young girl toddles into view, her two little pigtails bouncing as she moves. She stumbles over her own feet and falls into her mother's legs. "Mommy."

A blank expression lingers on the woman's face for a moment before she turns to her daughter and slowly picks her up. She clears her throat. "What's wrong?"

The child pays the men at the door no mind as she pouts at her mother and mumbles, "Dylan drew on the wall again," as if that wall was the most sacred thing in the whole wide world and it was now irreparably damaged by the child in the other room.

There's a halfhearted smile on the mother's face in spite of the tears brimming in her eyes as she runs her fingers through her little girl's hair. "It's alright," she says. "I'll be there in a few minutes, okay? Mommy's a little busy right now."

There's a tiny _okay_ before the girl wriggles out of her mother's arms and runs back into the house.

"I'm so sorry. Please come in." She turns and leads the two into the living room, where they sit around a cluttered coffee table. "I'm Deanna, by the way. You probably knew that already."

She swallows and apologizes again. "Sorry, just… please, say what you came to say."

Booth and Sweets look at each other for a moment before Booth clears his throat and slowly speaks. "Mrs. Miller, I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth, and this here is Dr. Sweets. I'm very sorry, but your husband's body was found last night in a neighborhood about ten minutes from here, and we have reason to think he may have been murdered. Is there anyone that may have had a problem with him, anyone at all?"

"Murdered?" she whispers, shocked. Tears spill over and trail down her cheeks at the very thought of it. "N-no. God, no, Chase is – everyone loved him. He was a good man, Agent Booth."

There is a short shriek from the other room, followed by the sound of a crying child. Deanna wipes her eyes and is up out of her seat in a second, and Booth and Sweets are left alone in the living room as she tends to her children. As the mother softly reprimands the troublemaker and comforts the victim, Sweets stands from the sofa and slowly, silently starts moving around the room, analyzing what he sees.

"Anything?" Booth asks after a few moments.

"Well, he was definitely a family-man," Sweets notes, gesturing to the framed pictures scattered around the room. Wedding photos, family picnics, first days of school, evenings spent reading to the children, all on display on the mantel, the walls, the end tables. He glances down at the coffee table to find an open photo album with even more pictures. He studies each and every one on the open page. "Probably valued his family more than anything else in his life. Looks like he took most of these pictures, and Mrs. Miller probably just brought them all out to try and cope with his disappearance."

Booth nods, and Deanna soon reenters the room with a whimpering Dylan propped against her hip. The boy's head is buried in her shoulder as she sits back down and holds him close.

Booth smiles halfheartedly at the young boy. "Uh, Mrs. Miller – If you don't mind, when was the last time you saw your husband?"

"About two weeks ago," she answers, stroking her son's hair. "He, uh… he was upset. Something happened at work, something about the files on his computer. I don't really remember. He was also on one of his swings, so he went out for the night and I didn't think anything of it until… until he never came back."

"Swings?" Sweets asks, turning from where he stood by the mantel. "Like -"

"He was bipolar," Deanna says after a moment's hesitation.

"Was he taking medication for it?"

"Yeah," she nods. "Prozac and Zyprexa."

"Together?"

"Usually."

"And how were they working for him? Did they ever cause negative effects in his behavior?" Sweets asks, sitting back down next to Booth.

"They'd been working well for him for years. Never had a problem with them. I mean, sometimes the meds would make him tired or give him a headache once in a while, but that's all."

Sweets nods.

"So," Booth says. "No problems with the meds. He didn't say where he was going?"

Deanna shakes her head. Before she can get another word out, however, there is another interruption from the other room – a heavy crash seems to shake the floor, a timid _oops_ following it. There's a resigned sigh from the mother as she stands, her son still on her right side, and apologizes for her children's behavior once again to the two men, who simply apologize for her loss and say goodbye.

* * *

"The particulates you found were hydrocarbon-based, with traces of petroleum. Looks like common asphalt," Hodgins walks into the bone room and gently places the small dish onto a nearby tray.

Wendell looks up at him. "So he was dragged across pavement… with enough force to embed bits of the asphalt into his bones?"

"That seems perfectly consistent with the damage," Brennan adds, not looking up from her work. "With a high enough velocity, dragging could sufficiently tear away the flesh and splinter the bones like this. However, I'd imagine there would also be damage around the wrists or the ankles or someplace where he could have been bound. And there's nothing to suggest he was pulled at all."

"Could he have been pulled by his clothing?" Wendell suggests, doubt in his voice that is soon confirmed.

"It's possible… but highly unlikely. It would be nearly impossible to drag someone by their clothing with that much force unless there was some machine involved; and then whatever clothing he was wearing would have torn before he could be dragged very far. Dr. Hodgins, what were his clothes made out of?"

"Uh, his shirt was a cotton-polyester mix, and he was wearing jeans."

"Right," Wendell cuts in. "So that rules out the dragged-by-his-clothes theory…."

"So I would continue to search for another cause of death, Mr. Bray," Brennan finishes, pulling her latex gloves off of her hands and leaving the room.

With a sigh, Wendell returns to his work with a vague feeling that, although the last few minutes were not _exactly_ useless, he's starting again from square one.

Oh, well. He's used to it by now. _C'est la vie_ , after all, when working with Dr. Brennan, but he wouldn't have it any other way.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

"You have to know when to prod and when to be quiet, when to let things take their course."  
― Sue Monk Kidd, _The Secret Life of Bees_

* * *

 

One Day Before

"Well, I didn't think it would happen," Sweets says, dragging his feet into Booth's office, unannounced. "But we got a fully cooperative psychiatrist for once."

Booth looks up from his desk to see Sweets walking in with a few documents in hand.

"Way to knock. Is he here?"

Sweets shakes his head, ignoring the comment. "No. He couldn't make it in, had too many appointments. But he sent over Miller's prescriptions and the drug information for both of them. He also said that he had been on those medications for the past eleven years and hadn't experienced any major problems, so that confirms what his wife said."

He puts the information on Booth's desk and the agent looks it over for a few brief seconds before standing up.

"Okay, that gets us somewhere. Was Miller still seeing this guy?"

"Not regularly. He said that they'd set up appointments every once in a while, just to touch base, but everything seemed fine. He said that Miller was very high-functioning when he was medicated."

Booth nods. "Gotcha. Alright, I called in Miller's boss. She's waiting for us up in the conference room."

"Okay, good," Sweets says, stifling a sudden yawn, hoping to be discreet about it. Discretion, however, is a difficult thing to maintain around Seeley Booth, and the agent makes no secret of noticing.

"Still sick, I see," he notes, changing the subject, watching the other man quickly rub his tired eyes with the bases of his palms.

Sweets offers a quiet sigh and replies with a light "Yeah, kinda." It's a hell of an understatement, though, because he feels just as miserable as he did yesterday, if not more so. He's long past overtired, with the same soreness he's had and the same futile desire to just go home. But with an ongoing murder investigation, who could afford that? And regardless, he can suck it up like an adult. It's not a big deal.

"Ever consider going to the doctor?" Booth suggests, casual, walking out of the room with Sweets in tow. The younger man nods.

"Already went, actually," he explains. "Had my regular physical a few days ago, they just did a few extra things while I was there. I'm going back tomorrow for the results, and they'll probably just hand me some Tylenol or something. So back to the victim's boss..."

"Nicole Darzi, thirty-six years old, manager of Stark Digital Advertising."

Sweets nods as they both fall silent, and that's the end of their conversation as they reach the elevator. The two step inside, hit the button that will take them upstairs, and prepare to meet with their latest interviewee as the door closes and up they go.

* * *

"Hey, guys," Hodgins says, entering the bone room. "I analyzed some of the particulates Cam found on the flesh around the wrists. Turns out it's leather."

The pathologist echoes him with a confused expression on her face and gestures to the remains on the slab. "Leather around his wrists? But there's no evidence on the bones to suggest he was bound."

Finally looking away from the bones in front of her, Brennan walks over to her colleagues and considers this for a moment.

"Well, actually, there's no evidence to suggest there was _pressure_ put on the victim's wrists. Perhaps he wasn't struggling against any bonds. He could have been unconscious." She points back to the remains. "However, there is no evidence on the skull to suggest that he was knocked unconscious _before_ he died."

Hodgins nods and looks back at Cam.

"Could he have been drugged?"

The pathologist thinks this over for a few seconds and answers, "Maybe. If there were any drugs in his system at time of death, they'll show up on the tox report when it gets back. It's due back in about… two days?"

She walks over to a computer and types in a few quick commands.

"Yeah," she verifies. "Two days."

"Uh, guys?" Wendell, silent up until this point, calls from his position by the bones. "Sorry, just throwing an idea out there – what if the victim was thrown? Like, from a moving vehicle? That could explain the striations and the gravel, and if he was unconscious and bound, it would be consistent with the lack of damage to the wrists."

There's a pause as everyone in the room looks over at the head anthropologist, who thinks about it for a few long moments.

"Throwing an individual from a moving vehicle… does not seem like a very practical method of murdering someone. However, the preliminary profile that Dr. Sweets gave us does say that the killer was most likely either incompetent or not intending to kill. So your theory, while somewhat farfetched, is not entirely unreasonable. I wouldn't rule it out, Mr. Bray."

Wendell immediately looks back down at the bones, hiding a proud smile from the rest of the group. It truly is a pleasure, he finds, to not be shot down by his mentor once in a while.

Everyone in the room quickly returns to their work, to their bones and tissue and particulates. They all fall back into the silent, productive dynamic they're so accustomed to, and the investigation continues.

* * *

The woman in the conference room is calm, leaning an elbow against the table and gently swinging her feet back and forth under her chair, her heels dangling from her toes. Her free hand is holding a cell phone that seems to be holding all of her attention – at least until two suited men enter the room.

The phone does right into her back as she slips her heels back on her feet and stands to greet them.

The older of the two shakes her hand. "Hi, Ms. Darzi, I'm Agent Booth. We spoke on the phone earlier. This is Dr. Sweets."

"I would say it's a pleasure, if we weren't meeting under these circumstances," she says, the tiniest hint of an accent in her voice, as they all sit down around the table. "Chase was a good man. I'm sorry to see him gone."

Sweets nods sympathetically. "Well, that's why we called you in. If you can provide us with some more information about him, maybe it will help us find out what happened."

"Of course," she answers, pushing her dark hair away from her eyes and straightening up in her chair. She gestures for them to begin, and Booth starts asking questions right away.

"Okay, so we know he worked at Stark Digital for about seven years. Can you tell us what he did there?"

"Oh, yeah. He designed and developed graphic advertisements for many of our customers. He would do all the artwork, write the content, everything. And he was excellent at it, too – we never had a single complaint from any of his clients."

"Any complaints from other workers' clients?"

"It's rare that we get complaints, but once in a while it'll happen. Sometimes a customer might be not like the advertisements some of our developers put out, but that's usually not a problem. We work until everyone is pleased."

"It sounds like the company runs very smoothly," Sweets comments. "So I don't suppose there was ever any competition for clients involving Mr. Miller? Anyone jealous of his success?"

The woman shakes her head. "No. At least, no instances of that that I am aware of. Chase's coworkers were all very fond of him, came to him for help and whatnot. He simply did his job, and he did it honestly."

Sweets nods and jots down a few notes as Booth continues the conversation.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

She answers, "About… two weeks ago? Yeah, it was a Friday. End of the week. I remember he was upset. Our computer networks were being updated, and during the process, there was a server crash that made him lose all of his open files for three important clients."

"That must have made him angry."

She nods. "Very. Went right up to one of our IT consultants, yelling and demanding to know what happened and how to fix it right away, and when she tried to fix it and said it couldn't be done he just got so… agitated. I'd never seen him like that, though; it wasn't in his character. It was a huge loss for him, I suppose, a big shock."

"And this IT consultant," Sweets chimes in, looking up from his notes. "How did she respond to his outburst?"

There is a shrug from the woman across from them. "They just argued for a few minutes. I don't recall all of what was said. But in the end, she just kept apologizing and insisting that there was no way to get his files back. Still, he was having none of it, so he walked away."

"And where did he go? Back to his office? Home?"

"The break room. He was there for a while, and I'm not sure when he came back. I was attending to other things at that point. I didn't hear anything from him after that, not even when he clocked out at the end of the day."

Sweets blinks at her, a curious look on his face. "You didn't try to seek him out at all? You never wanted to confront him about what happened?"

"Dr. Sweets, sometimes I find it's best to let things take their course. Chase was very angry and upset, yes, but he would calm down eventually. And there was no doubt in my mind, even before he stormed out of the office, that he would come back sometime on Monday, find the woman he yelled at and _beg_ for forgiveness. Like I said, it truly was not in his character to be angry. So how could he _stay_ angry? He just... didn't come back on Monday, you know."

Booth and Sweets look at each other and give each other a minute nod, a silent decision made that they just received the truth from the woman in front of them.

"And this was definitely the last time you saw him?" Booth presses after a few moments of silence. "No phone calls, no emails, nothing?"

Darzi clears her throat and nods, and there's a hint of sadness in her voice, a wistful look in her eyes as she answers, "Absolutely nothing. He didn't even call the office to say he wouldn't be there when he didn't show up the next work day, and he was always very good about that."

She runs her fingers through her hair and pushes it away from her face again before continuing.

"The next thing I heard about him was that his wife reported him missing. Next thing I heard after that, he was dead."

"Well, we're very sorry for the loss," Sweets says. "Thank you very much for helping us. I have no more questions for you today. You?"

He turns to Booth, who shakes his head at Sweets with a quick, "No," and turns back to Darzi.

"Okay, that's all the questions we have for you at the moment. Thank you. If you could send over contact information for that other employee as soon as you can, that would be great. And if we need you again, we'll call."

With a nod, the woman stands from her seat and pulls her bag up off the floor, slings it around her shoulder.

"I'd say any time, Agent Booth," she replies with a grave smile. "But once this case is over with, I'd rather not have to come again. No more dead employees."

She shakes Booth's hand and nods politely at Sweets before leaving the room.

"So you're thinking the other employee could be a suspect?" Sweets asks, swiveling his chair back and forth with his feet. Booth tilts his head back and forth, weighing it in his mind.

"I'm not positive," he admits. "What she just described seems like a normal workplace argument, but it's all we've got to go on right now. Once she sends the contact information, I'll call the IT worker in and we'll pick at her."

"Awesome."

The two stand from their seats and leave the room, Booth flipping the light switch off as he passes through the doorway. The door closes behind them, and the conference room is left silent and dark as the two return to their respective offices and other responsibilities.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: "Day Zero" was supposed to be encompassed in one chapter, but it ended up being about seven thousand words. So that's why it's split. Hope you like the chapter, don't forget to leave a review!

* * *

"You don’t have to hear 'I Love You' to know that someone does. Listen carefully. People speak from the heart more often than you think."

\- Blocklava

* * *

Day Zero (Part One)

The door to the conference room closes with a muted click as Seeley Booth and Lance Sweets sit down at the table in front of a jittery, nervous-looking tech consultant, whose head is tilted forward so her blonde hair can cover as much of her face as possible. Her hands are clasped together in her lap, shoulders tense, and the only change in her demeanor when the two enter is a slight raise of her head so she can see them.

"Hello, Ms. Hayes. My name is Agent Seeley Booth and this is Dr. Sweets," Booth begins kindly, arranging a few pages of notes and documents in front of him.

The only reply is a quiet, hesitant, "Nice to meet you."

"You seem nervous," Sweets notes, and the woman's discomfort quickly becomes more and more obvious. "Is there a reason why?"

She clears her throat, then, straightens her back. "Of course. My coworker was found murdered a few days ago, and because of an argument I had with him, I'm being called a suspect. That would make anyone nervous, wouldn't you think?"

"Of course. It's a natural reaction when you're under stress. Say the wrong things, you could go to prison, right?"

"Exactly."

"Well, don't worry. We're very careful, and we won't send you anywhere without the right evidence."

Sweets' promise seems to calm her slightly. She nods, gathers her hair and flips it over her shoulder so her face is completely visible.

"Alright, then. What do you need to know?"

"You could start," Booth says, "by telling us about the altercation between you and Mr. Miller. Your boss already told us what she saw – we'd like to hear your side of it."

She nods. "Of course. And you know, Nicole didn't really see the whole thing. She saw him yelling, but that wasn't where it started."

"Alright, then, how did it start?"

"It started when his computer fried. I was in the process of creating a network server for the building; that way we could access files from any computer, you know? So I was running around to everyone's computers, installing the server software. And then I get to his computer, and I ask if I can install the software and he tells me to go for it. He gets up and lets me work. I insert the disc and run through the installation process, but just as it was finishing, his screen went black. The computer just turns off, no shut down, no nothing. I tried turning it back on, of course, but it wouldn't work. The fans just turned on, and a few lights on the keyboard, but nothing else."

"Had he been watching you do this, or just standing by, or…?" Sweets asks, not looking up from his notes as he hurries to finish writing before she starts speaking again.

"No," she answers. "He went to go grab some coffee while I was working, and came back as I was panicking and trying to revive his computer."

"Was that when he started to get angry?"

"Sort of… he didn't explode at first. He just put his coffee down and asked me what wrong, and I told him. He looked really, really freaked out, and he just said, 'Shelby, just tell me you can fix it. You can fix it, right?' And I just couldn't. I tried, I really did. I took the thing apart looking for the problem, and it turned out to be the motherboard. I don't know how it happened, but it was completely fried, so his computer was just dead. Nobody would be able to fix that. And I told him, 'Chase, I'm so sorry, but your computer's gone. If we can find a computer that no one is using, I can insert your hard drive into that and you'll be able to access the files you had saved on it,' and he just covered his face for a few seconds… and got really upset with me then. That's about the time Nicole walked in."

Booth nods. "What did he say to you?"

She bites her bottom lip for a few moments before answering. "He was really angry. I didn't know he could get so angry. I don't remember what he said verbatim, but he was going on about how he had so much work for a bunch of clients on that computer, open in Microsoft Word and unsaved. He kept yelling about how those projects were gone, and the mistake I made was going to cost us so much time and money – you get the picture. And I tried to tell him that it wasn't anything _I_ did that caused the problem, because it wasn't, but he wouldn't listen. He just kept yelling, and I couldn't do anything other than apologize."

"And after that," Sweets says. "He just walked away?"

"Yeah. I didn't see him for the rest of the day after that. It was kind of intentional, to be honest… I didn't want him to get angry at me again."

"Did you see him at all in the following days?"

"No," she answers. "I didn't see him at all, and he was reported missing a few days later."

There's a short silence, then, as the two men jot down a few more notes.

"Sounds like a normal workplace argument," Booth says after a few moments. Sweets nods in agreement as he continues.

"Ms. Hayes, what kind of car do you drive?"

She blinks at him, confused. "My car?"

Booth nods.

"I drive an old Ford Ranger. It's, uh – 1998, I think. I think you can see it from the window, do you want to look?"

Booth gets up from his seat and looks down at the parking lot, squinting through the morning sun. Sure enough, there's an old white pickup truck parked on the far end of the lot. Without looking away from the window, he asks her where she got it.

"I don't see why my car would matter… but an old friend of mine sold it to me cheap a few years ago. Do you need to contact him?"

"Won't be necessary. Thank you, Ms. Hayes, that's all the questions I have for you now. Sweets?"

"I've got everything I need."

Hayes stands quickly and smooths her skirt, grabs her bag, swings it over her shoulder. She shakes Booth's hand as she says goodbye and is out the door in moments.

Booth turns away from the window as the door clicks shut.

"She drives a pickup. You think the victim could have been thrown from it?"

Surprisingly, Sweets shakes his head.

"I don't think so," he says. "First, that would involve _two_ people angry enough at Miller to want to kill him, and based on what we were told, that seems unlikely. And like you said, it sounds like a normal argument. Plus, there's nothing in her behavior to suggest she's even mentally or emotionally capable of murder, so there's that."

The FBI agent lets out a long breath and rubs the back of his neck. He says nothing, though, as Sweets continues.

"But I don't think we should completely eliminate her as a suspect yet. It's unlikely that she did it, but not impossible."

Booth nods. Sweets stands from his seat.

"I do want to talk to Deanna Miller again, though," Sweets adds as they leave the room to return to their work. "I want to see if she can tell us more about the night he left that might give us an idea of where he went."

* * *

Coffee and overcooked French fries. The entire diner is filled with the faint smell of those two things, only one of which is remotely appealing at the moment. He's standing on line, eyeing the menu in spite of already knowing what he wants, prepared to order quickly and go, when he hears his name being called from somewhere behind him.

He pivots around on his heels and finds that this just so happens to be one of those times when the people you meet at random just so happen to be the people you've been needing to see, and he steps right out of line without a second thought.

"Hodgins, Angela!" he says, walking over to a booth by the window where the couple is sitting. "Just the people I wanted to see!"

Angela smiles, getting up from her seat and joining her husband on his side of the table. "Well, I'm glad to hear that! Sit down, Sweets, eat with us!"

He sits down automatically, but gives a small shake of his head, a nearly unnoticeable frown, at the second part of her request.

"Sorry, but I can't stay long. I was just about to grab a coffee to-go and get back to work, but you guys _just_ reminded me that I had something to tell you about the case; okay, so you know - "

Angela interrupts, pressing on with a wave of her hand, "Come on, Sweets! You can take your mind off the case for like thirty minutes and grab something to eat. The world's not going to end if you break for lunch."

"Seriously, eat with us," Hodgins adds, a grin quickly spreading across his face. "We wouldn't want you losing your pants again."

Angela's hand flies up to her mouth as she tries and ultimately fails to stifle a laugh, both at the joke and the resigned, but certainly not surprised, look on the psychologist's face. A complacent and self-satisfied expression finds its way onto Hodgins' features, and the younger man says nothing at first, rubbing a hand across his eyes and pausing to contemplate this. When his palm comes away from his face, he's smiling.

"Hey, thanks, Hodgins!" he says after a few moments.

"For what?"

"For giving that joke a longer lifespan than it was intended to have. I'm sure it enjoyed its extra thirty seconds of use."

Hodgins shakes his head. "Come on, man! You had all that time to think, and that's the best joke you could think of to come back with? I'm disappointed in you. Just disappointed."

Sweets opens his mouth to respond, but is suddenly interrupted by a young waiter, standing by the edge of the table and flipping open a note pad. Hodgins and Angela place their lunch orders, and as soon as the waiter finishes writing, Sweets finds himself on the receiving end of two pushy glares from the married couple across from him. He sighs.

"Just a coffee for me, thank you. To-go."

As the waiter turns around and leaves, he turns back to his friends.

"Five minutes," he says firmly to their amused expressions. "And only because I do have to talk to you about the case. I have to go meet a patient after this."

"Fine. What about the case?" Angela asks.

"Alright, the victim's wife was able to meet with me a second time to discuss the night he left. She had said earlier that he came home agitated and upset, and she just told me today that he actually left the house on a motorcycle. She said it's a black V-Strom he picked up in 2004, and I have the license plate number on my phone. I can text it to you. She said he left the driveway and turned left at the end of their street. Do you think you might be able to track the bike and get an idea of where he might have gone?"

The artist nods her head. "Of course. Once I get back to the lab, I can go through the traffic camera archives and see where it's been. Plus, if anyone else has been using it since then, we'll find out about it."

"Awesome. Anything new from the lab?"

"Nothing really," Hodgins says. "Not since yesterday, when we found traces of leather on his… wait, he drove a motorcycle!"

His sudden loudness makes Angela jump, but Sweets just nods.

"Yeah, and?"

"And we found particulates of leather on his wrists. People on motorcycles often wear leather gloves, right? We were starting to think he was bound, but that obviously wasn't it."

Sweets blinks at him, a crease in his eyebrows. "Wait, but how could the leather get onto the _bones_ if he was just wearing them?"

"I'm not entirely sure," he admits. "I'll have to see when we get back. Maybe, if the gloves were low quality, some fibers could have rubbed off with friction and ended up on the bone after the skin decomposed. There'd probably be some similar particulates around his fingers, if that's the case. I'll check later."

As soon as the scientist finishes speaking, the waiter appears back at the table, seemingly out of nowhere. He places a paper mug on the table.

"Your coffee, sir," he says to Sweets before turning to the other two. "And your food should be out any minute."

The waiter is gone as quickly as he appeared, and Sweets takes the cue to stand from his seat.

"Alright, I gotta get going. You guys have a nice lunch, and I will see you later!"

The psychologist digs through one of his pockets, pulls out a five-dollar bill, and places it in the center of the table. It's a few dollars more than necessary, but he doesn't seem to care.

Angela gives him a sigh as he leaves. "Fine. Enjoy your coffee – you look like you need it. And make sure you eat lunch later!"

Sweets smiles and throws a quick, "Thanks, Mom," over his shoulder before he's out the door of the diner and well on his way back to his office, texting the motorcycle's license plate number to Angela as he walks.

* * *

Today must be one of those days. It's one of those sluggish week days when the clock can't seem to move fast enough and it takes him far too long to get through the work he needs to get done. It's a day that he muddles and stumbles and drags his feet through, and he couldn't be more relieved that it's over.

Except, it's not quite over yet. He's finally leaving work, but he still has more to do before he gets to go home and collapse on his bed for the night like he really wants to. He can only hope that the rest of the day will go by quickly – but he stops himself right there, because whenever he finds himself hoping for something to end, it ends up lasting twice as long. He wouldn't want to jinx himself.

The parking lot is strangely cold as he walks out to his car. As he pulls his jacket tighter around his shoulders and folds his arms in front of him, he looks up at the sky above his head. The sun is far off at the edge of the sky, not quite setting yet, but close to it. There are no clouds to be seen, and the sky is still the same bright blue it was at midday, just with a little bit of purple at the edges. Ah. So it's one of _those_ days, the ones that might feel so much like spring if not for the leaves on the ground and the bite of the cold air. Winter is indeed coming.

He doesn't realize how long he's been tilting his head upwards until he slams into something – or someone – that is most definitely _not_ his car.

"And _that's_ why you should pay attention when you walk in a parking lot."

Sweets snaps back to reality, away from the sky and the strange cold air, to find Booth standing there, laughing at him.

"Oh my god, sorry about that!"

"Don't be," Booth grins at him. "I saw you looking all out if it and walked in front of you on purpose."

"You serious?" Sweets has that resigned look about him, the signature, irritated posture he adopts without realizing it.

"Of course I am," the older man answers. "Seriously, though, you're driving home?"

Sweets nods and looks at him, confused. "Well, not right away. I gotta swing by the doctor to get some results back, then I'm going home. Why wouldn't I drive?"

"Nothing, it's just – I don't know, you still look pretty out of it. You sure it's safe for you to drive?"

Sweets dismisses him with a flippant wave of his hand.

"Says the guy who barely looks at the road when he drives?" he says with a slight chuckle. "Seriously, though, I'm fine. I drove this morning. My car's right over there." He jabs his thumb in the direction of his car and Booth just shakes his head at him.

"And I'm honestly surprised you didn't kill someone on your way here. You looked pretty tired then, too."

Sweets opens his mouth to say something back, but Booth cuts him off.

"And maybe I don't look at the road _all the time_ ," he admits, "but I know when I shouldn't drive. Come on, I'm all clocked out. I can take you where you need to go."

The younger man seems to contemplate that for a moment before slowly shaking his head.

"No, that's okay. Thanks for the concern, Booth, but it's really fine."

There is a deep sigh from the older man, and a hesitant concession.

"Fine," he finally says. "Just don't kill anyone, okay? Stop at all the stop signs, make full stops before turning right on red -"

"Thanks, Dad," is the response Booth gets, along with a toothy smile and a quiet laugh.

"I'm serious."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow!"

The two split, then, and walk off to their respective cars. The sky overhead has turned a few shades darker without any of them realizing it, though the air seems significantly less bitter than it was a few minutes earlier. The sound of one car door opening and closing echoes through that air, an engine starting up before promptly being turned back off. A car door opens and closes once more.

Booth is almost to his car when he hears a voice behind him.

"Booth!"

"Did you finally come to your senses?" he asks, turning around to face an annoyed, still tired-looking Sweets.

"I did no such thing. Apparently my brakes did, though."

Booth blinks at him, narrows his eyes in confusion.

"Wait, what?"

"I'm pretty sure my brake line just went. I started up and -"

The older man shakes his head dismissively and walks back in the direction of Sweets' car.

"No, that makes no sense. Brakes can't just go when you haven't moved your car in ten hours."

"That's what I thought, but apparently they did."

They reach the car and Booth immediately climbs into the driver's side and starts it up. Sure enough, he tests the brake pedal and finds his foot sinking right down to the floor. He shuts it off and gets up.

"Your brakes went," he says after a few moments, staring incredulously at the car. "That makes absolutely no sense."

He shuts the door as Sweets heaves a sigh. As if he needed a problem like this, one that will take too much time and probably a good amount of money to fix. He vaguely wonders if the day could get much worse as he locks his car and mumbles something to Booth about having his car towed the next day. He looks over at him, and the FBI agent's suddenly got a big, complacent smile on his face.

"So, I'll drive you?"

Another sigh.

"Yeah. But not because you insisted."

"I know. Come on."

The two walk over to Booth's SUV, climb in, and drive away, leaving Sweets' car locked and broken in the parking lot under the clear purple sky and the sun that is just beginning to touch the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fun fact: The bit about the brakes, that actually happened to me. True story. I was learning to drive last year on my mom's SUV, and she had me stop at the supermarket and pick something up for her. She wanted to bring the car in front of the store so I wouldn't have to walk all the way across the parking lot, but she started up and the brakes were gone. 
> 
> Just imagine if I'd been driving when they went, holy crap.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

"You don't need water to feel like you're drowning, do you?"  
― Jodi Picoult, _Nineteen Minutes_

* * *

 

Day Zero (Part Two)

"You can just drop me off here. Thank you."

The car slows significantly for a few seconds in front of the door as Booth glances back and forth between the hospital's drop-off area and an unoccupied parking spot on the nearby curb. He gives his passenger a slight smile and shakes his head.

"Nah, I can wait for you," he says, and as Sweets starts to argue, he cuts him off and continues. "Hey, Bones is still finishing up work and Max has Christine until eight. I got some time. And you said this should be quick, right? I can take you home."

Sweets blinks at him and points out that he could just as easily take a cab. The driver shakes his head yet again as he moves his car to the curb and parks parallel in between two others.

"Why should you take a cab when I can drive you? It's not a problem for me. And to tell you the truth, I kinda feel bad for dragging you out in the middle of the night when you're sick. Least I can do is give you a ride home."

There is a short pause as the younger of the two thinks about this before he finally tilts his head to the side and says, "I swear it would be no inconvenience for me to take a cab home, and it wasn't that big a deal for me to come out that night. But if you want to drive me home, then sure. I have a feeling I wouldn't win the argument anyway."

No sooner does he finish speaking than Booth turns the key backwards in the ignition, and the car's engine does silent. Booth flashes him a complacent smile.

"You're right, you wouldn't. Come on."

The two quickly get out of the car and go inside, and after just a few minutes of waiting and filling out forms, Sweets is called into the office and Booth is left alone in the carpeted waiting area, playing idly with his car keys in one hand and mindlessly tapping at his phone with the other.

* * *

It is the same office he sat in a few days ago, just a little darker. He sits in the same chair, facing the same doctor, surrounded by the same framed doctorates and slightly tilted art on the walls. The same window is on his left, the only difference being the lack of light pouring in through it. Instead of the early afternoon sunlight of that day, the only thing he sees when he looks at that window is the vague reflection of himself, bent and morphed with the curvature of the glass. He looks strange, but for some other reason he can't exactly place. His face is the same face he has stared at in the mirror all his life. It looks no different than it did yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. And his body, in spite of his most recent little bug, is the same body he's always had. He's more or less the same. So what's changed?

His train of thought is interrupted by the soft throat-clearing of the man behind the desk, a sound that seems to echo through the tiny space, and he turns his head to look at him. The same frail doctor that poked and prodded and scanned this and that the last time he was here is looking back at him from under thin wire glasses, biting his bottom lip, quietly tapping the end of his pen on the edge of the table. After a few moments, stretched thin with anticipation, he speaks with a soft voice and a formal tone.

"Good evening, Mr. Sweets," he says, reaching forward to shake the psychologist's hand. "How are you today?"

"I'm okay. How are you?"

"I am… okay. Thank you," the old doctor gives him a tilted smile that quickly disappears and gives way to the serious expression he had before. "Alright, we'll get right to it, shall we? Let's take a look at your file."

The man's tone is careful and somewhat subdued as he turns a page on his clipboard and keeps his eyes trained on the paper instead of the young man in front of him.

He takes a short pause before jumping right in. "When you were here a few days ago, you reported symptoms of fatigue, abdominal pain, and a soreness in your back, correct?"

Sweets just nods, though the doctor does not look up to see it. The man just seems to go on automatically, in a conversation with himself to which Sweets is just an observer.

"Yes. And your physical showed a fair amount of weight loss. I assume you have not been dieting."

The young man in the chair in front of the desk just blinks at him for a moment, turns his head and stares back at his reflection in the glass. The pointed edge of his jaw, the cheekbones that are only slightly more visible, all twisted by the glass, catch his eye. He starts to answer the doctor, starts to say the _no_ on his lips, the _I haven't been_ in his teeth, but the doctor keeps on speaking and Sweets realizes that what he said was not a question.

"We also got your blood work back, which explains your fatigue. Right now your blood is deficient in iron, making you moderately anemic. That can be alleviated with an iron supplement, but that will only be a temporary fix and… cannot fix the root of the problem."

Sweets' head turns back from the window to look at the doctor, who has turned away from him to leaf through a file cabinet against the wall behind the desk, directly underneath a framed doctorate on the wall. He emerges holding a few thick photo sheets, and something tightens in Sweets' chest.

"The... root of the problem, sir?" He is suddenly very, very small.

He barely hears the doctor's murmured _yes_. Instead, his eyes latch right onto the photos in the man's hand. Those laminates, all they are, they're just pictures of the inside of his abdomen. And it's the same abdomen he's had all his life, the very same thing. The only difference right now is the big white blotch covering part of the pictures.

He opens his mouth to say something about it, but nothing comes out. So the doctor goes on.

"We got the results of that MRI scan. And, as you can see… we found a – an _irregularity_."

Sweets can't do much more than blink at the photos in the doctor's hands and murmur a barely intelligible response.

"That... doesn't look regular."

The doctor nods, his eyes cast away from his patient, and points to that big, white, suddenly harrowing blotch on that paper.

"The scan revealed a tumor in the abdominal cavity, possibly originating in the peritoneum. The technicians estimated an approximate size of ten centimeters across."

"That's..."

"Very large. Especially for what looks like a soft-tissue tumor."

Sweets can't take his eyes off the picture in front of him. He stares until his eyes start to go dry, and then he keeps on staring. A thought, big and scary and dark, springs up behind his eyes. His voice is tiny and shaky as he carefully asks the one question on his mind.

"The - the tumor, is it... uh...?"

"Malignant?" the doctor fills in, placing the scans down on his desk, forcing his patient to find something else to stare at. He still does not look at Sweets, and if he is feeling any emotion at the moment, his face doesn't show it. "The results of the bloodwork and other exams indicate that... it is very likely."

The silence in the room is palpable and thick, with Sweets saying absolutely nothing, waiting for the words the doctor just said to mean something. He is given time to let those words sink in, but his head feels more like an umbrella than a sponge. Words sit right on top, sliding across the surface, bounce right off and onto that carpeted floor beneath him. It's suddenly raining very, very hard and he doesn't yet know if he is wet or not.

"So," he says, his lungs trembling as he speaks. "So you're saying that this – this tumor, it could be, uh… it's probably…."

He takes a deep breath and forces the word out like boiling water through his teeth.

"Cancer?"

"Yes." The doctor meets his eyes, and that's it.

There. Right there, in that office, in that single moment – he is very, very glad he is a psychologist. Because if he weren't, he'd be scared beyond function. He might space out, his vision blurry and out of focus. He might be panicking inside his mind, with his breathing minutely picking up and his heartbeat so loud in his ears that he can't hear most of what the doctor's saying about _biopsies_ and _a few more tests to make sure_ and _rising cure rates_ and a bunch of other things that he obviously hears because he's obviously so present and attentive. If he weren't a psychologist, his hands might start shaking and sweating and sliding on the wooden arms of the chair where he's got them in a death grip. If he weren't a psychologist, he might not have a single clue of what to do or how to think or what to say. But psychologists always know what to do, of course, and he's one of the best. So he knows exactly what to do, he does. He knows exactly how to clear his head and think and calm himself down, because he's a psychologist, and psychologists like him are always levelheaded and calm and collected and

"Mr. Sweets?"

His eyes just barely focus back on the doctor in time for him to hum in response.

"Did you hear what I said?"

He blinks and takes a few moments before answering.

"Uh… yeah. Just… could you say it again? Just to make sure I, uh… got everything."

The doctor gives him a halfhearted smile, nods a bit, and repeats himself.

"I said that we will need to schedule a biopsy as soon as possible so we can give you a proper diagnosis. Once we're finished here, you can schedule it with the front desk. And when you come back, basically what we're going to do is insert a thin needle into the front of your abdomen in order to take a tissue sample. Then we'll send it out to a lab, and we should get those results and an official diagnosis within a few more days. In the meantime, I want you to keep your head up."

He pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and gets up from his seat to go look through another cabinet on a different wall. When he returns, he's got a few pamphlets in his hand and extending his arm to Sweets, who just looks at them for a few moments before taking them.

Words and phrases like _fine needle aspiration_ and _remission_ and _recurrence_ stick out to the young psychologist, and for a fleeting moment, he's so sure this must be a dream. It _must_. But then he glances at the clock and finds that time has gone by, far more time than he was expecting to pass, and something in his chest aches with the knowledge that this is not something his mind created. He knows enough about dreams to know what is real.

And what's real is the doctor in front of his face telling him not to worry about his probable cancer just yet because "cure rates for many different cancers have been rising, especially in the past few years."

What's real is that doctor placing a hand on his shoulder and assuring him, "I know many skilled and talented oncologists that I can refer you to that will do their absolute best to find you a cure if the biopsy confirms my suspicions."

What's real is his heart still hammering against his ribs and his throat that's dry as hell and the fact that he's still going to worry, no matter how many assurances he receives. He is and will still be terrified.

He is soaking, soaking wet and shaking from the cold and his umbrella has been absolutely useless, and the clouds are darker than anything he's ever seen before and the storm is certainly not ending anytime soon.

* * *

It is a damn good thing that his friend reappears in the hospital lobby when he does, because Seeley Booth was just about ready to climb back into his car and leave him there. Having used up most of the remaining battery on his phone and run out of nearby people to talk to, all he had left to do was stare at the wall, immensely regret his insistence on being nice, and wonder what the _hell_ was taking so long. At one point, he even walked outside to his car and seriously considered sending Sweets a quick text and going home – but, as that would probably keep him up at night, he turned around and went right back inside to stare at the wall some more.

"Nice and quick. Yeah. Sure."

He had just about had it with all that time being wasted, but then – when he's just about ready to walk right into wherever that kid is and yank him out – he finally shows up.

Booth sighs as he rises from his chair. He can't _really_ be mad. That's illogical; it was, after all, Booth's own choice to stay, and he all but forced Sweets to let him drive him home. And so what if he underestimated the time it would take? That's an honest mistake. He can't be mad about that. He can, however, give the psychologist a very hard time about it, and that's just what he's prepared to do. He watches Sweets talk with the receptionist - even that seems to take forever - and is trying to pull the most irritated expression in his repertoire as he turns around, but –

Sweets walks right by him. He walks right by, without even looking in his direction, and Booth just stands there, confused, watching him walk through the lobby and out of the building. Did he just _forget_ he was here? No, how could he forget? An hour and a half was a terribly long time to be in a doctor's office, but that's not a long enough time to forget who's driving him home. With another sigh, Booth starts to walk after him, resolving to give Sweets the hardest time _imaginable_ because this whole wait has been long and frustrating. And also because he can.

He is met with cold November air and a dark sky when we walks through the automatic doors. The sidewalk and the circle of pavement are surprisingly empty, and the floodlights on the wall are dim and occasionally flickering over the heads of the only two people on the ground.

Booth sees Sweets with his back against the wall of the building, staring off somewhere, and hangs back and just looks at him for a few moments. Something doesn't look right. Something in the kid's eyes that Booth can't exactly place.

He forgets about whatever snarky comment he was originally going to make and just walks over to Sweets and leans against the wall next to him. A few minutes pass with nothing but a quiet _hey_ on Booth's part.

After a few more minutes of silence, Booth speaks again.

"You okay?" he asks with a casual tone and a flicker of concern in his eyes and the realization that he has never seen the psychologist so quiet.

Sweets, he looks down at himself for a second and contemplates that. Booth still can't read his face.

"Uh... yeah," Sweets finally says. "Just, uh... just give me a second."

And with that, he slides down the wall into a sitting position, the fabric of his suit jacket snagging on the bricks of the wall as he goes. Booth watches as he tries to be discreet about the deep breaths he's taking, in through his nose and out through the tiniest part in his lips, silent as ever. After another few moments of standing there, wondering what to do, Booth joins him on the sidewalk. He says nothing. He just waits.

He doesn't know how long they sit there. What he does know is that night has completely fallen, and the air around them has gotten terribly cold. Only a handful of people have walked by where they're sitting, moved around Sweets half-extended, half bent legs, and paid them no mind. The lights are still flickering overhead. He's just about to ask Sweets again, try and get him to say something, when the younger man takes a deep, shuddering breath and speaks of his own accord.

"I, uh... just made an appointment... for a biopsy..."

It takes a few seconds for the words to register, and even then, Booth still needs to make sure he heard right.

"...What?"

Sweets looks up and Booth is suddenly able to see the muted terror in his eyes. Something in him hurts at the sight of it as Sweets continues, his voice quiet and small.

"They found a… a tumor. Somewhere," he says, loosely waving a hand over his midsection. "Said it's, uh... pretty big. Probably malignant."

Booth looks down at his own gut, wondering how it could be possible for him to have been punched in the stomach so hard without anything having touched him. His mouth is sewn shut and he can't figure out how to cut the threads.

"Shit."

Sweets hangs his head down again, having finished his recap, and Booth takes up the mantle of staring off into space. It takes a while, but he soon recovers enough of his wits to stand up and pull Sweets up with him by his shoulder. The psychologist offers no resistance as Booth leads him back to the SUV waiting diligently by the side of the road and gently pushes him towards the passenger side before walking around the car to climb into his seat. Neither of them says anything as he pulls away from the curb and drives off, and neither of them says anything when Booth ends up driving right past Sweets' street, and nothing is said about the fact that, for once, Booth keeps his eyes on the road the entire time.


	6. Chapter 6

"I don't feel very much like Pooh today," said Pooh.  
"There, there," said Piglet. "I'll bring you tea and honey until you do."  
― A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh

* * *

 

Day Zero (Part Three)

Even as the car rolls up to the gate at the top of the driveway, crunching a few bits of loose gravel under its tires, the two people in the car do not say a single word. Not one. And when the car shuts off and goes quiet, they sit in silence for God knows how long, staring forward through the windshield at absolutely nothing. After all, what is there to look at? What is there for them to do? They're well and truly winging it, now, and the ride can't be bumpier. That clear air above their heads, it's heavy and thick and damn near impossible to see through, let alone fly in. So what do they do?

What can you possibly say to someone who just got told he probably has cancer? _It'll be okay_ and _don't worry_ and _you'll be fine_ – none of those will ever cut it. Empty, shaking words like those just fall on ears belonging to a person that will still worry and panic, no matter what anyone says. They fall on ears belonging to a person that will probably still be very sick at the end of the day, and nothing that Seeley Booth can say to Lance Sweets will change any of that. So what now?

He's tired of the silence that's blocking their way. It's tense and it's tedious and it's time for it to end.

He moves without thinking, at first, opens the car door and climbs out of his SUV before he can think of what to do next, in true Seeley Booth style. And before he closes the door, he pokes his head back inside and speaks directly to the psychologist in the passenger seat, who's still just staring off at God knows what. He's looking less and less like a psychologist with each second that goes by, and more and more like some regular, terrified guy: not quite Lance Sweets.

"Hey," Booth says. Sweets turns his head to look at him as he nods towards the house. "Come on."

The shrink hits the button to unlock his seatbelt but doesn't move. He looks away for a moment.

After a small forever, he mumbles, "Booth, you don't have to -"

"Doing it anyway. _Come on_."

With no small amount of hesitation, Sweets slowly gets out of the car and follows Booth into the house, hands in his pockets, head tilted down. His feet move slowly through the familiar grass in front of the garden, and he stumbles when they find the base of the cement steps, but if Booth notices, he says nothing about it. Booth opens the door, and the squeal of the hinges, soft as it is, echoes through the hallway and bounces off the walls, the furniture, the insides of both their skulls. Their entrance does not go unnoticed.

"Booth?" Brennan's voice sounds from the kitchen, complemented by the hum of a working stove top and the _clink clink clink_ of a spoon handle against the edges of a pot. "You're later than you said you'd be."

The two walk right into room, Booth giving her a halfhearted smile and a soft apology, Sweets hanging back by the doorway. And Brennan, plain and simple, she says it's fine before looking over at the psychologist by the door. There's a tiny crease in her forehead, the slightest hint of surprise in her tone as she greets him.

"Hi, Sweets. Would you like to join us for dinner? We can set up three plates."

His response is a quick and quiet, "No, thank you." And apparently he's fine. At least, he says as much. But then he hears a tiny voice in his head and feels a pair of eyes digging into him, and he tells the good and honest truth.

"I'm not hungry."

Booth walks right by Brennan and reaches up to the cabinet to grab three plates. He sets them on the counter by the stove as she turns it off and goes on speaking. "Hey, come on, we'll set up three plates. Eat with us, we'll -"

" _Booth_ ," is the response Sweets gives. There is no irritation in his voice, no frustration. Just soft insistence that makes the agent stop, holding the third plate in his hands, and look Sweets in the eye. He's not quite sure what he sees.

"I'm not hungry. It's okay."

The third plate finds its way back to the top of the stack in the cabinet, and Booth just nods.

And Brennan, she stops setting up the plates for a fraction of a second and looks at the two. Booth starting to rummage through another cabinet, eyes cast away – Sweets shuffling his feet by the doorway, shoulders tense, head tilted down. It is a strange sight. She turns back to the plates and hears Sweets walking over to her, murmuring the softest _May I help?_ she's ever heard. And she starts to say no.

"Of course not," she says, a smile in the part of her lips. "You are our guest, seeing as you don't live here anymore. Plus, as you've declined to eat with us, there is no need. We can take care of it."

And she starts to go back to what she's doing, but the idle movement of Sweets' fingers in the corner of her eye and the fact that she can feel the tension in his body through the air has her looking back up at him and recanting what she just said before she has time to think about it.

"But if you would really like to, you can grab the silverware. You know where it is."

Sweets nods and goes off to do just that, and the table ends up being completely set an impressive thirty seconds faster than usual. Well – almost completely.

"Booth, come on –"

"Just a second. I'll be right there."

Brennan sighs and props her head up with her hands. She glances from the plates on the table to Sweets, who is sitting at the table in spite of a place not being set for him, and back to the kitchen, where Booth is dawdling. Something, she decides, is very, very strange tonight; and she's going to find out what it is. She no sooner opens her mouth to speak, though, than Booth strides right back into the room, sliding something across the table to stop where Sweets' plate would be before sitting down in his chair without a word.

And the psychologist, he stares down at the sudden cup of tea that's wrapped in his hands, still steeping and steaming and hot. It takes a few moments for the small _thanks_ to come out. And Booth tells him not to mention it. He doesn't.

And so the (arguably) most awkward dinner in Lance Sweets' life begins and goes on in silence – all clinking silverware and downturned faces and turning gears behind each forehead. They only make it about halfway through, however, before Brennan finally speaks.

"Admittedly," she sighs, rests her fork on the plate, sits back in her chair. "I am not extremely skilled in picking up social cues. However, I _can_ tell that something is wrong. And I'd very much appreciate it if one of you would tell me what it is."

There are suddenly open, empty spaces hanging in the air where answers should be. Bitten bottom lips, turned away eyes, but no words. A perfect ocean of silence that is rippled when Sweets finally clears his throat and speaks, eyeing the mug in front of him with renewed interest.

"I apologize for the… strange behavior – Dr. Brennan. Um… perhaps I shouldn't have come… tonight. Car's busted, though, so I guess I didn't have much of a choice, huh?" The chuckle trapped in his chest withers and dies before it can reach his teeth. "So, uh… anyway…"

He continues to stammer as Booth continues to say nothing.

"My, uh – my car is messed up, right, you know – Booth offered to drive me over to meet my doctor to get my physical results, and basically…"

He forces his head up so he can look Brennan in her curious, now slightly concerned eyes, and suddenly he's trapped. He's caught, now, with his bad hand, and there's no way out of it.

Long story short:

"'Surprise!'" he says in a sort of whisper-shout, a thin smile on his face that doesn't reach his eyes. "'We found a giant tumor and you probably have cancer.'"

And his fingers can't move away from the heat of that teacup.

Brennan's face turns to reflect something that, for once, Lance Sweets can't decipher. Even Booth has a difficult time placing that look in her eyes, the precise way her jaw is set and the soft creases of her forehead. Her quiet, "Oh," is without any discernable tone, the "That explains it," purely observational. She turns her head away and the silence sweeps back over them like snow.

The plates of dinner are suddenly far less appetizing than they were before.

"Where is it?" Brennan asks after a few moments. If the circumstance disappeared in that moment, she could be asking where some specific fracture was on some obscure bone. Sweets closes his eyes – and for one fleeting moment, that's true. And then that moment's gone. And it isn't so. Not anymore.

He clears his throat.

"Abdominal cavity."

She nods. The snow swirls around their heads.

After years and years, Brennan brings a lungful of air deep into her chest and sends it quickly back out, her voice carried on her breath to the far corners of the room.

"While cancer is an illness that many people fear for its poor survival rates and poor manageability," she says to the opposite wall, "I find it necessary to keep in mind that treatment success rates for many cancers have significantly increased over the last few decades. Not to mention the fact that medical science and technology are consistently improving, which makes it very likely that survival rates will in turn continue to increase. With many talented minds behind such innovations, I would not be shocked to see a continued increase in the next few years."

She sits perfectly still in her seat, the room around the three of them frozen. It remains that way until they finally get up and clear the table, silent as they do so. The tea, cold and untouched, goes down the drain. And in the stretch of time that follows, Sweets gathers up his voice and looks to his two hosts.

"Hey, uh… thanks. Thank you for… for having me tonight. Thanks. And, Booth – if it's not a problem, I – I'd like to go home. If that's alright."

"Of course," the words slide easily into the air as the older man grabs his keys from the dish on the island and goes to retrieve his jacket, leaving Sweets to give a small and earnest _thank you_ to Brennan.

He stands close to her for a long, unsure moment, his hand hovering in the air between them before the anthropologist ignores it and instead goes forward to wrap her arms around his waist. After God knows how long, his arms find their way around her shoulders; and they stay like that for a few silent moments before pulling apart. He nods to her one last time and follows Booth out to his car so he can finally go home.

* * *

"Yeah, I took my house key off the set, I can just go in. Thanks."

The car slows to a gentle stop at the top of the driveway, and as Booth turns the key back and kills the engine, a small light by the rearview mirror flicks on and they both just sit, a perfect parallel of before. Sweets' key is in his hand and the things he took out of his car are crammed into his briefcase by his feet, ready to be taken into the house. And after a brief second of hesitation, he starts to get out.

"Hey, Sweets," Booth says, and the other man stops immediately. "Don't come to work tomorrow."

And the light in the car starts to dim, so Sweets swings the car door out to turn it back on before looking back at the agent in the driver's seat.

"Booth, whatever happened today, I can't just skip work. We have a case –"

"We have a case that can handle a day or two without you. Look, don't worry about it; we're sort of in a slow spot anyway, and if we need some more psych work done, we can borrow someone else. Just – just take a day. At least."

Sweets looks up to his home for a long moment and turns back to Booth.

"I have to be there for them to tow my car."

"Don't worry about it; I'll take care of it.

The autumn wind blowing around them is all they can hear for the next few moments, and Sweets gives an involuntary shiver before he can meet Booth's eyes and nod.

"Okay. Fine. Thank you."

And the FBI agent smiles at him in his victory, saying, "Good. Now go get some sleep," before sending the psychologist on his way and pulling out of the driveway.

* * *

Day One

He could have slept for ten hours, or he could have slept for ten minutes. He has no clue – not that it makes much of a difference. A questionable session of tossing and turning and staring at cracks in the ceiling, no matter the length, tends not to be very restful at all, so when he has to drag himself up from his bed, head heavy and aching, it comes as no huge surprise.

His hand finds the phone sitting on the nightstand beside him and, by pure force of habit, checks it, to find a single message from Booth. Car's all taken care of, and the case continues to run as smoothly as it was yesterday – nothing unexpected. He gives some generic response before tossing his phone onto his covers.

His feet carry him to the bathroom without a thought. He's in and out of a hot shower in what seems like a few short minutes, but he can't really be sure. His mind is fogged up by the shower steam, and time doesn't move in quite the same way it did before.

He drags himself out and pulls a pair of jeans, and as the steam blows away from the room and the mirror starts to clear up, he's faced with nothing but his own reflection. And it takes a few long moments for him to realize that the man in the mirror with the tired eyes and dripping hair and the shirt gripped tight in his hands is him. But he does, and he ends up dropping his shirt on the floor in that moment and gripping the edge of the sink instead.

Words and images and memories from the night before are suddenly everywhere – not that they ever left. They're brought to the front of his attention, now, and he's sincerely having trouble believing that last night was not a dream. So he pushes himself off the sink and looks the hazy reflection of himself in the eye before taking his shaking hands and pushing his fingers into his abdomen.

And his fingers sink down, just like they would if he were doing this any other time.

But he keeps going, and pushes just a little bit harder until his stomach won't go in any more. And instead of feeling the same old relaxed muscles that he knows are there, there's something harder beneath his fingers that suddenly _hurts_. It hurts like it's been hurting for the past few weeks, only worst now for having been touched. Any and all hopes of this being a dream vanish in that very second – because dreams are never supposed to hurt like that.

And his hands drop to his sides in one final motion. He bends down to pick up his shirt and pulls it on before turning away from that mirror and stumbling back into his bedroom, his hair still dripping from shower water and this new reality he has to live in.

By pure force of habit, he checks his phone once more when he comes to stand by his bed. There's one more message from Booth, and, honestly, he probably could have foreseen the simple, " _How are you doing?"_ that blinks back up at him.

And Sweets, he doesn't even give a one-word answer. His phone drops back onto the bedcovers as it did before, and all he can do now is turn around and walk away.


	7. Chapter 7

"Just for the record, the weather today is calm and sunny, but the air is full of bullshit."  
― Chuck Palahniuk, _Diary_

* * *

Day 1

"Alright, Mr. Booth," the man says, replacing his pen behind his ear and reaching out to shake the agent's hand. "That's your third free tow. You've got one more this year – let's hope you don't run into any problems in the next two months!"

Booth nods, giving the guy an obligatory smile, words coming out and floating up like his breath in the cold air. "Agreed. I'm hoping for some good weather, then. And functioning brakes. Thanks."

And the guy pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose before climbing back into the flatbed and driving away, Sweets' car shifting only slightly atop it as the echo of taught, grinding chains makes its way back to where Booth is standing.

He watches until the car disappears down the road before hurrying back inside to his warm office. And he makes it just in time, too, to catch the video call that's popped up on his computer. He throws himself down into his chair and answers it, not bothering to check who it is because he already has a pretty good idea.

"Angela, talk to me."

The woman on the other end smiles and wastes no time.

"Okay, so Sweets told me yesterday that the victim's wife knew the general direction of where he went after he left the house that night. I tapped into the street camera footage and was able to place him somewhere on U Street between six and eight o'clock on the second. Here, I'm sending you one of the stills. The victim's bike is towards the right side of the screen."

Sure enough, a photo pops up of cars parked parallel along the edge of the road, save for Miller's spot – where an old black motorcycle stood instead of a car. And true to Angela's word, the timestamp in the lower right-hand corner announces the time and date with bright red letters.

"Okay, awesome. I'll pop over there in a little bit, see if Bones wants to head over and check out the area."

"Alright – is Sweets busy with patients?"

It's an honest question, for sure. One that shouldn't stump him as much as it does. It occurs to him just then that all the madness from the night before had not escaped far from its box. All the chaos and fear it had created is isolated, privy to so very few; and fear is like that sometimes. It can eat at someone's mind and explode behind their eyes and the person right next to them - or the person on the other end of a Skype call - can have absolutely no idea. And for the time being, since it's not his news to share, he keeps it that way. He doesn't lie. He just doesn't tell the truth either.

"No, he's not in today. Wasn't feeling well."

He's not sure what he expects, but he decides that the sympathetic head-tilt and concerned look on Angela's face is perfectly in character.

"Aw. You know, he looked kind of sick yesterday – hope he feels better."

Booth gives what is probably the most sincere nod of his life.

"Yeah," is all he can say to that. "Alright, I'll see you in a few."

And the call is over, just like that. He hangs up and checks for any surprise documents on his desk and finds none before he heads back down to the parking lot and climbs into his SUV. He sends a quick text to Sweets, just to let him know about his car and the case, before starting up and making his way over to the lab, blasting the heat and pointing all the vents that only blow cold air at first towards the driver's side.

* * *

The door falls shut and the few light jingles from the bell on top are lost to the noise of the crowd. Immediately, a hostess is upon them, thrusting menus at the pair and shouting over the chatter to ask if they'd prefer a booth or a table or seats at the bar. Oh, and welcome to Nellie's Sports Bar -

"Meant to start with that. My bad! So where can I sit you?"

In one quick, fluid motion, the badge appears in Booth's hand, shining in the dull light of the bar.

"With the manager, if you could."

The young woman just stares at the two for a brief second and blinks away her surprise as Booth adds in a rushed, "Please."

Wide-eyed and blind-sided, she nods and walks away, signaling for them to follow. The menus are thrown back on top of the stack as she leads them away from the front to a room in the back and sends them inside, where an older man with wire glasses and a hunch in his back stands to greet them. He hurriedly ushers them inside and urges them to sit; as it seems, federal investigations are not things to be welcomed or prolonged.

"Hello, sir, ma'am," he says, rushing back behind a small desk cluttered with papers. "Forgive me, I'm rather surprised to have you here. What can I do for you?"

Booth pulls a generic photo of the victim out from a jacket pocket, holding it up for all to see.

"Sir, I'm Agent Seeley Booth and this is my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan. We currently have a murder investigation going on, and we have reason to believe that the victim was in one of the buildings on this street just before his death two weeks ago. Have you seen this man at all?"

And the manager, he squints at the picture in Booth's hand for a good few seconds before sitting up straight and shaking his head apologetically.

"I'm sorry, I haven't. To be honest, if he was here towards the end of the week, I wouldn't have seen him; I only work nights Monday through Thursday. There's another manager that works the other days, but you'd probably be better off asking the bartenders," he suggests, gesturing out towards the crowded bar. "Try asking Kylie. She's the one with the red hair, and she's pretty good at remembering faces. She works most evenings, including weekends, so if he was here, she'd have seen him."

Booth nods as he and Brennan rise from their seats, saying, "Right. Thanks, sir. We'll be in touch," before they leave the office and head straight for the bar, where they find a redheaded bartender leaning against the counter, mixing a drink.

"Hey, miss, do you have a second?" Booth asks, and she stares at the badge that's back in his hand for a few long seconds before nodding slowly. Surprise evident on her face, she quickly finishes mixing and slides the drink over to her customer before turning back to them and hearing their question. She nods at their inquiry.

"Yeah, I think I've seen him before. Maybe. Do you know when he came in?"

Friday evening, about six thirty or so, according to his wife. His motorcycle was parked on the street around that time, at least, if that's worth anything to her. Evidently, it is.

" _Oh!"_ the girl says, closing her eyes and pressing a palm to her forehead. "Yeah, yeah, I remember that guy. Name's Chance or something, right? Chase or whatever. He came in around six, looked kinda depressed about something. I didn't really ask, just served him his drinks. But it was weird, after a while, he started getting really agitated. Again, I have no idea why – he just got real rude out of nowhere. And it got so bad that he tried to pick a fight with two other guys. We broke it up, but they all just went outside and drove away. I just remember the motorcycles going by the front window."

Booth glances sidelong at his partner for a brief moment and gives her a nod.

"Those two other guys, do you know who they are?"

The girl purses her lips for a moment and slowly nods. "Sort of. I don't know their full names or anything, but they're regulars. Or at least they used to be. I haven't seen them in a while. But their first names are Tim and Alexei. Here's what they look like – they won one of our raffles a few months ago."

She removes a laminated picture of the two men from a corkboard on the wall and hands it to Brennan.

"They're really nice guys, though," she quickly adds. "Stopped a guy from coming onto me one night – you know the deal. Not the type to kill anyone, I'll tell you right now."

That just gets her a nod and a sincere thank you from the two investigators as they leave, the bell on top of the door chiming softly as they go.

* * *

"Booth?" she interrupts the silence in the car hesitantly – as if there's some unspoken rule here that she's missed and is about to break. The soft grunt from somewhere deep in Booth's throat, quiet as it is, urges her to continue. So she does. "Would you like to… talk about last night?"

There's a pause before Booth asks her why.

"You didn't say anything after you got back last night. And you seem a little..." she glances over at his hands, which are currently white-knuckling the steering wheel. "Stressed. And while it is not certain that Sweets is the cause, I feel it's likely that it is. It may be beneficial for you to talk about it."

Booth's only response at first is a heavy sigh, a slack of his shoulders. His fingers just slightly loosen their grip on the wheel. And when he finally speaks, he's quiet.

"Am I… stressed about Sweets? Yeah," he concedes, glancing over at her once, twice. "Do I want to talk about it? Not really."

The car is silent for a few long, stretching moments.

"Do you?"

Brennan offers a slight, uncertain sigh.

"I tend to turn to my work in times of… emotional difficulty. However, as I am not at the lab, and the information we were just given appears to be relatively straightforward, that seems impossible at the moment. Talking about it… appears to be my only option –" A pause. "- although I would not like to."

The thick white line just beneath the red light greets them as the car slows to a temporary stop. Booth looks back over at his partner, taking in her just slightly widened eyes, the creases in her forehead as quick as he can before the light changes. Surely, if she were the one driving – she'd be white-knuckling the wheel, too.

"You know, Bones," he starts, just as the light turns green. He rolls forward, presses gently on the accelerator as he turns. "What you said last night was really… it was good. I think you… I think you calmed him down a lot. Me too, you know. And you're right. You're absolutely right."

She is silent, waiting for an explanation. It comes after a few long, stretching moments of uncertainty.

"You're right, you know – technology and medical science are improving. So if – _if_ Sweets has cancer, they'll help a lot, right? And look, Sweets is – he's a pretty tough guy. Usually real healthy. So – if anyone really has a fighting chance, it's him. He'll be okay."

He's not entirely sure if he's speaking to Brennan or himself. But that doesn't much matter.

The only problem is that he's not quite sure if he believes it.


	8. Chapter 8

Day Four

He answers the phone and it's Sweets. The shrink's voice echoes quickly and almost excitedly through the line, relaying information like he's just discovered a revolutionary secret. It's no secret, though, of course - the answer to the whole thing, he explains, is written right on drug labels, on reports sitting right on his desk, if Booth wants to go in and grab them, see for himself.

"The drugs Miller was on, they don't go well with alcohol. You want my guess," he explains, "he was drinking at the bar for so long that the alcohol impaired his ability to make decisions, made him act irrationally. It also probably affected his motor skills severely."

Booth glances through the glass at the pair of men in the interrogation room. They're all bitten lips, jittering fingers and shaking legs. They're also very, very likely the last people to see Chase Miller alive. Add that to what Sweets is saying -

"So he couldn't think clearly and was driving his bike even worse than if he was drunk... so..."

"So just... consider that," Sweets continues, giving a slight sigh, as if he'd been holding his breath for ages. "I mean, I obviously can't analyze the new suspects, so I can't really tell if they're the type to jump to murder, but if what the bartender told you guys is even remotely accurate -"

Booth latches on quickly; that's one of his strengths.

"We might be looking at an accident."

There's the distant echo of snapping fingers on the other end of the phone, and he feels the corners of his lips creep upwards as he pictures the shrink, making the same enthusiastic gestures as if he were standing right next to him. The confidence in his "Exactly!" is leaking out into some other room filled with some other people that probably wouldn't appreciate it.

Booth nods his head, though no one else is around to see it. "Alright, noted. Thanks, Sweets. Give me a call later, alright?"

"Sure thing. Good luck," is all Sweets says before the call ends. And Booth only has to make one more before he can speak with the men on the other side of the glass. Not thirty seconds later, he's talking to Bones – but she cuts him off before he can get a single word out.

"Booth, I was just about to call you," she jumps right in, not even waiting for him to acknowledge her voice. "The injuries on the remains, they may not suggest a homicide; they –"

"Might suggest an accident?" Booth fills in, a burst of excitement suddenly in his chest. He's being handed the last of the puzzle pieces, and the picture's just about complete. Brennan hums her agreement and he continues. "Yeah, Sweets just called; he thinks that, too. Said his medication probably reacted with alcohol –"

"Which Cam confirmed a few minutes ago. Both drugs and the alcohol showed up in the victim's bloodstream in the tox report. Meanwhile, the damage on the bones – which is almost exclusively on the right side of his body – may suggest that he attempted to make a right turn too fast while riding. If the motorcycle came out from underneath him mid-turn, he would have essentially been dragged across the street by his own bike. The damage to his skull and a few major arteries would have killed him within seconds."

That, right there – that's the final piece. Booth can almost hear it snapping into place, and now all he needs is a touch of glue to hold the puzzle together. The two men on the other side of the glass. They're involved in some way, there's no doubt; the only question is _how._

Of course, he will find out. So he finishes up his call with Brennan and strides right into the room, giving the men enough time to try and fail to calm their nerves before sitting down across from them.

They're practically vibrating as he begins.

"So… Mr. Timothy Sewick, Mr. Alexei Maksimov," he reads from a page in front of him, pronouncing names with minimal difficulty, before flashing them a grin. "How are you today?"

And the two, they glance at each other with the kind of nervous confusion Booth has only ever seen in this room. And they look back at Booth, the same questioning expression on their faces. They don't answer.

So Booth takes a guess. "Nervous? That's okay. I've been told you two are some pretty nice guys, so I don't think I'll have to charge you with murder, right? What do you think?"

The only answer is the sudden paleness of the suspects' faces. Booth continues, holding up a picture of the victim.

"This man," he says, "was Chase Miller. According to one of the bartenders at Nellie's, he left the bar about two weeks ago on a Friday with the two of you. Then he turns up dead in the woods, behind a house in Tacoma. Can you tell me about what happened that night?"

Their gazes are fixed firmly on the table in front of them, and Maksimov is the one to speak, a heavy accent to his voice.

"We… leave the bar. After he begin fighting with us, see – he start out quiet, drinking by himself, and is suddenly trying to fight my friend and me. I don't know why. Tim and I, we leave, but he follows. We…." The man trails off, briefly checking Sewick's face for any hint of disapproval or agreement. He finds nothing, but does not continue.

So Booth, he lightens up. He throws them a bone. "I highly suggest you tell me the truth. Because, if it turns out that the victim was not actually murdered… you could get yourselves out of some serious trouble."

The two of them, they bring their heads up and glance at each other. Sewick continues right where Maksimov left off, speaking slowly and far more clearly.

"We got on our bikes and drove away from the bar. But he was following us – probably still wanted his fight. I do not know about Alexei," he says, gesturing to his left, "but I was afraid of what he might do. So I speed up, Alexei does the same – and this man, he just keeps following. We made a turn somewhere, and a few seconds later… we just heard his bike scrape against the ground. We go back to where he fell… and he was dead. We panicked, see – just hid the body the first place we could think of. Called a friend to take the bike off the street."

There's a thick, momentary pause. He looks up at Booth, dead in the eyes, and is honest.

"I haven't been able to sleep since then. Don't think I ever will."

The agent, he nods his head and makes a few notes on his clipboard, asking, "Had either of you had anything to drink yet?"

The answer is no, not yet. Someone's blood alcohol level can't possibly rise if they leave the bar before their shots even get to them.

"Alright," Booth says after a few long, tense seconds. His puzzle, it's complete now; all that's left is the clean-up. "Thank you for telling the truth; makes my day a whole lot easier. Chase Miller's death was not your fault, I understand. Unfortunately, I do have to charge you today." He takes a deep breath. "The best I can do is charge you with concealing a body and hope a prosecutor doesn't try to elevate it to manslaughter. You'll probably have a short sentence.

He stands and moves towards the door.

"You two, you should be fine. I'll send in a legal advisor in a few minutes."

He's gone from the room before either of them can even nod.

* * *

He hangs up the phone and the doctor's back. His legs dangling over the edge of the platform, unsure if hopping off to greet the man would be an appropriate thing to do, he simply waves and says hello. This earns him a warm smile and a firm handshake as soon as the older man comes over to him.

"Good morning, Mr. Sweets," he says. "How are you today?"

"I'm doing alright, sir," he replies automatically, as if the man in front of him were someone other than a doctor who knows full well that he's not. Biopsies are never done on people who are really alright; instead, they're done on liars. People who wear the words _fine, okay, alright,_ on chains around their necks, when really – well, you know the rest.

A brief nod and a gentle command later, he's on his back with his shirt off, the doctor above him narrating his actions as he goes. Sweets feels the cold swab soaked with antiseptic trail across his stomach just a second after it's announced, flinches only slightly at the touch, and the same goes for the sharp prick of a needle just to the side of his navel.

The feeling of tissue being aspirated out, into a syringe chamber, it's strange. The doctor warned him before he started drawing, of course, but still – having tumor cells removed through a needle while he is very much awake is a new, strangely uncomfortable feeling. Thankfully, the pressure lasts only about a minute before the needle is pulled out, and after a few more moments he's allowed to sit up. Once the sample's checked and declared suitable, his shirt comes back on. And it's all over. Just like that.

"Wasn't so bad, see?" the old man says, the corners of his glasses shining just slightly under the dull ceiling lights.

"Yeah," Sweets agrees, a dark tone to his voice. "Easy part's over, right?"

The doctor just nods. His eyes are cast downwards for a few long moments, and he softly tells the floor to come back on Wednesday.

"It'll only take about two days for the results to get back. If you come in the morning, we can meet to go over it and set up a plan from there. Michelle can set up an appointment for you at the front desk."

This moment, here – here's when he hops off the platform and shakes the doctor's gloved hand. Here's when he offers a generic smile, but gives a genuine _thank you_ before walking out of the room. He fumbles for his jacket as he passes through the doorframe and pulls it on immediately; and before he can even stop to think, he's already made an appointment for ten o'clock on Wednesday morning. His feet pull him away from the desk before he can change his mind about it, before he can ask himself if he actually wants to hear the results at all – because, of course, it's far easier to deny a problem if it doesn't have a name. He knows this.

So he drags himself away. And before he can think twice about it, he's dragging his feet towards the door, bracing himself for the cold and then stepping right into it, blending right back into a crowded, busy D.C. street.


	9. Chapter 9

_"A tumor? Me? I mean that doesn't make sense. I don't smoke, I don't drink... I recycle."_

_―Adam Lerner, 50/50_

* * *

Day Six

"Hey."

If Lance Sweets heard him, nothing on his face shows it. His eyes stay locked on the carpet below his feet, his face perfectly void of all expression, as if the world simply ceases to exist more than a foot out from his skin. It's a bit unsettling, really; which is why Booth repeats himself, nudging his shoulder with his knuckles.

_"Hey."_

The psychologist finally looks up at him, his face still lax but his eyes wide with barely concealed nerves. Booth tries to pay them no mind as he continues.

"You're gonna be fine, Sweets," he says firmly, locking his jaw in between his sentences. "Whatever they found, it doesn't matter. You're going to be just fine. Trust me."

Sweets seems to consider this for a moment, turning his head away to look towards the windows. He's turned away from Booth as he mumbles.

"He said-"

"Yeah, I know what he said. That it might be cancer, I heard you the other day. But even if it is, Sweets, people beat cancer. They beat it all the time, every day, I'm telling you. I promise, you'll be okay."

Just as the shrink is opening his mouth to reply, his name is called by a young nurse with a clipboard and an early-morning smile. Slowly, they stand from their seats and start walking.

"People beat cancer," Sweets repeats quietly, barely loud enough for Booth to hear and nod his agreement to. He says nothing more for a few more steps, and it almost seems like he's finished. But softly, under his breath, he adds. "It's just that more people die from it, is all."

Booth can't really find anything to say to that.

* * *

For all the build-up, there sure is a fair amount of waiting. There's Sweets and Booth, sitting with their legs crossed in their respective chairs, there's the same old doctor's office as usual – but no doctor. Not quite yet. They're still playing the waiting game, just in a different spot.

The frames on the wall look exactly the same as before, the degrees, the art. The windows, though, are slightly different; instead of the night outside, there's morning sunlight pouring in. If Sweets just stares out those windows, this might just be his first visit to this office, a week and a half ago, instead of his fourth one today. Back when he was still a healthy, strong, indestructible guy with nothing more than a slight flu bug and a hectic, sleepless week. If he can't see his pale face and heavy eyes in the reflection of darkened windows, of course - then it just as well may be that everything is fine and there is no problem. Booth's here because he's got nowhere better to be and Sweets' car is broken, and that's all. He's not here for support, certainly not. Everything is fine and there is no problem.

That's why when the doctor finally comes in minutes later, shuffling quietly to his desk, Lance Sweets is not worried at all. Not one bit, no. The smile on his face when he gets up to shake the doctor's hand proves it, even if it is a little closed-mouthed and short-lived.

But as he and Booth sit back down, he finds it impossible to keep pretending. Reality jars him as his friendly neighborhood tumor sends a quick, dull ache across his front, and his inner monologue switches from denial to silent panic. It's gone from _everything's fine_ to _thatmightbecancerhe'sabouttotellmeifihavecancerthere'satumorinsideofmethatisprobablycancer,_ andit is not a pleasant feeling.

The doctor sits down behind his desk and looks him straight in the eye, and Sweets can feel his heart pounding in his chest so dizzyingly hard, he can barely focus. But he's got to. He's got to listen as well as he can, so when the doctor finally tells him, "You've got cancer," there's less he'll need Booth to repeat.

That's not what first comes out of the old doctor's mouth, however. What comes first is an apology.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he says, hurriedly organizing his papers on his desk. After a quick glance to the clock, he explains, "The lab was supposed to fax over the results earlier this morning, but they just came in about ten minutes ago."

He pauses.

"To make up for that, I'll try to be quick."

Sweets and Booth, they nod. The doctor, he takes a breath and continues.

"The lab results did confirm that the tumor is malignant… which is consistent with my preliminary observations. The tissue and blood samples were also able to help them identify the mass and develop a diagnosis. It's called a desmoplastic small round cell tumor. I personally have no experience with this particular illness," he admits, gathering up folded pamphlets and papers and carefully handing them to Sweets' robotic arm, "but I've listed several experienced oncologists I know that would be far more knowledgeable and capable of treating it. There's also some general literature there with an overview, in the pamphlets just underneath."

Booth glances sidelong at the pages in Sweets' hand as the two of them skim over the front of one. The psychologist's voice is a quiet, barely audible murmur as he echoes. _"Desmoplastic small round cell tumor."_ He tries to look calm, he really does; but perhaps it's his shaking hands that give him away.

The doctor is quick to try and combat this.

"Now, I know this looks formidable, Mr. Sweets, but it's extremely important to remain positive. Right now, whichever oncologist you choose – as well as I – could tell you that you're very lucky that it hasn't metastasized yet. Often with soft-tissue tumors, the problem goes unnoticed until the cancer has spread; here, that isn't the case. So that's in your favor."

If Sweets has as much optimism in that fact, he doesn't let on. He's quiet, staring at the papers in his hand until he notices the two sets of eyes on him. He hasn't said a word since entering the room; and yet he's not quite sure what to say.

"Mr. Sweets?"

He looks back up and says the only thing that's rattling through his mind.

"So, uh – cancer," he murmurs, pursing his lips for a brief second. "I have cancer."

There's a slow, careful nod, a soft, "I'm afraid so," from the doctor, and _God_ , Sweets can feel his and Booth's eyes on him, can feel their pity radiating across the room. Well, he doesn't need that. He needs – God, he doesn't even know what he needs. He needs the doctor across from him to break out in a wide smile and tell him that he was only joking this entire time and that he's actually fine. He needs him to discover some sort of error here, to check the labels on the tests again and find that this is actually someone else's results, someone else's cancer – because there has to be some sort of error here, because cancer is something that happens to other people. Not him.

But his gut hurts. His heart is pounding in his ears and he can't feel anything but the plain and simple truth nestled inside him – and it hurts, and in that single moment, he's dizzy and nauseous and exhausted and terrified, but that doesn't make the fact any less true. He's a psychologist. At the forefront of his mind, he knows this.

Apparently, cancer happens to him, too.

And what can he do, other than fill his lungs with air and exhale slowly – counting to ten with each action – and nod? Carefully, he folds the papers in his hands so they're nice and neat, with the titles of each pamphlet facing inward, unreadable. He glances once at Booth's concerned expression, once back at the doctor, and this is it. With a soft, unreadable tone to his voice, he finally answers.

"Okay."

* * *

The oncologist he chooses is located at a sarcoma center in Maryland, about half an hour away from home. Believe it or not, it's the closest center out of the ones his primary doctor recommended; and by some stroke of luck (if such a word is the right one to use) there was an open appointment the very same day just waiting to be filled. Thus, a long, silent car ride took them right there.

When they finally meet the doctor – a kind-eyed Alice Roden with endless freckles dotting her dark skin, her hair pulled back into a messy bun – after a much shorter wait, she can't do much to quell the nerves and worries sitting across from her. She tells them what she can, straightforward and simple, as the two nod along and listen.

"Desmoplastic small round cell tumors are very uncommon," she explains. "I've treated one other case before. It's fairly aggressive, usually quick to metastasize. But as your primary physician said, it hasn't spread yet to other parts of the body, which is a very good thing."

"Means it's easier to treat, right?" Booth interjects, a tinge of hope to his voice.

Roden nods carefully and answers, "A bit easier, I suppose. Currently, the tumor is inoperable. While it's a soft-tissue tumor, and it's not directly affecting any major systems, it's situated a bit too close to some of the nearby organs than I would like. So I'd like to try to shrink it down as best as we can first, so we can minimize the risks of the surgery."

"So… chemo. Right?" Sweets asks, his face perfectly blank and his ears wide open.

"Yes, chemotherapy," the doctor replies. "And likely a few radiation treatments. But as each case is different, we'll need to feel it out as we go at first, and once we see what works, we'll keep going from there. If it's possible, I'd like to make an appointment for the start of your chemotherapy before you leave today, or at least within the next few days. You understand, it's important that we begin as soon as we can."

The psychologist nods. "I can do that."

The visit lasts just a few more information-filled minutes, and soon, Sweets and Booth are standing from their chairs and shaking Roden's hand. Almost hazily, they walk towards the door, and Sweets just barely remembers to turn to the doctor on his way out and wish her a "Happy Thanksgiving, doctor," before he leaves. The sentiment is, of course, returned.

And for a moment, he just stands there, staring at the small office with a detached sort of fascination as Booth keeps walking down the hallway. A question tugs at the corner of his mind, and, after a few long seconds of consideration, he looks back at the doctor and asks.

"Doctor, you… you mentioned another patient before. Someone with the… the same cancer. How're they doing?"

And Roden, she looks at him carefully and slowly answers.

"Well... he made it to his nineteenth birthday," she seems to look right past him as she speaks, a dark, suddenly so very human look in her eyes. "And passed away three weeks after. But that was years ago."

That should have scared him, he thinks; but it doesn't. Instead, he just feels the same old sympathy he's always felt. Looking right into her eyes, he nods.

"I'm sorry."

He's not quite sure what for, though, as he turns and finally walks of the room.


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

_Donnie: Well, life isn't that simple. I mean, who cares if Ling Ling returns the wallet and keeps the money? It has nothing to do with either fear or love._

_Kitty Farmer: Fear and love are the deepest of human emotions._

_Donnie: Okay. But you're not listening to me. There are other things that need to be taken into account here, like the whole spectrum of human emotion. You can't just lump everything into these two categories and then just deny everything else._

― Donnie Darko (2001)

* * *

Day Seven 

He's not quite sure what to expect when he opens his eyes to a semi-darkened room, wakes to the slight, rhythmic hum of a computer fan, but he decides that the sight of his wife leaning against the headboard with her knees drawn up and a laptop resting against her thighs is not so surprising.

She looks, perhaps, as if she hasn't slept for days. Her hair is in a messy bun situated at the base of her neck, and the bone-tired look in her glassed eyes from the night before hasn't faded a single bit. On the contrary, she's been staring at the screen for so long, the whites of her eyes are beginning to turn pink, just slightly. Slowly, Booth sits up in bed and glances over at the screen. He's far from surprised at what he sees.

Two windows are up, and she alternates between the two; she switches from reading through a specific article on some prestigious-looking medical journal to typing abbreviated notes, taking her time to be thorough with the information in as few words as possible. As if she could ever be anything but thorough.

Booth raises his arm and gives a tired gesture towards one half of the screen.

"What's that?"

Her voice is flat as she answers.

"These are common statistics for the diagnosis and treatment of desmoplastic small round cell tumors," she says. And after a brief pause, she adds, "And the general prognosis."

Booth considers this.

"Do I want to ask?"

She pauses and glances his way.

"You want to ask," she says, eyeing his tired expression carefully. "I doubt you'd like to hear the answer, though."

He says nothing, but bites his lip and nods grimly in her direction. She gently closes the laptop lid and places the computer by her bedside table before taking a deep breath and saying it aloud, quoting near verbatim.

"Out of approximately two-hundred cases diagnosed annually, about forty-four percent live for three years."

He can't quite meet her eyes.

"And what about the people who do make it three years?"

She can't quite meet his.

"Then there's the five year survival rate, which… is about fifteen percent."

He nods.

There's a moment, he thinks, somewhere along the line, when things can no longer phase you. When you just start to expect bad news to come your way, and when it does – _okay_. Words start to sit just outside your mind and understanding, making them easy to escape – however temporary the reprieve may be. Maybe he'll panic later. Maybe all the air will rush out of him and he'll feel that punch to the gut sometime in the middle of the day, and maybe he'll find the time to worry about it eventually, but for now, he's indestructible. There's nothing in his head right now save for simple facts, and in that moment, he can understand how his wife lived that way for so long.

Because weightless facts can't hurt you.

He reaches over to his wife and pulls her toward him, and in the sudden darkness of their bedroom, they sink back down to bed, arms around each other.

They close their eyes, breathe deeply and slowly and in perfect synchronization, and pretend to sleep.

* * *

"Dear Lord, on this Thanksgiving Day, we thank you for our food, our friends, our work and good fortune, our health..."

* * *

"You okay?" Booth asks, and the near-empty kitchen strains its ears to hear the answer.

Sweets nods his head.

"Yeah," he says, and after a pause he continues. "Yeah. I just... I just needed some time to get used to it. If you know what I mean. Although I'm not entirely sure if I'll _ever_ really get used to it... I understand. And I think I'm okay."

Booth thinks, that makes one of them.

"Are you going to tell everyone? Tonight?"

And Sweets heaves a long, heavy sigh and seems to contemplate this for a moment. He bites his lip and nods his head and says, "Well, I don't want to. But... I guess I have to. So... yeah."

There is a slight pause before he continues.

"I guess there are a lot of things I'll have to do now that I don't really want to."

* * *

"... through Christ, our Lord, Amen."

The rest of the adult table, non-religious as most of them are, does not echo his prayer. Still, they nod their heads in acknowledgment and contented tolerance, and that's more than enough. Unfortunately, he's not quite finished yet.

"Thank you guys for coming again this year; as always, it's a pleasure to have you all. I'm truly thankful for each and every one of you, and I hope we'll continue to have more memories to be thankful for."

There are murmurs of happy agreement all around the table.

"Now, uh," Booth continues. "I have to pass it over to Sweets for a second. He's got something to say."

And all of those still-smiling faces turn towards the psychologist who suddenly looks like he's been caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

"Hey, um... just had to say that I..." He takes a deep breath, steels his features – and suddenly can't bring himself to say it. "...forgot to bake this year. So I don't have the pie. I'm sorry about that. That's my announcement."

He plasters on a fake smile for good measure, but the rest of the table looks entirely unconvinced. And moderately concerned.

He opens his mouth to speak again, or perhaps to just ramble, when a timer goes off in the kitchen, on the other side of the wall. Sweets is up from his seat in half a second, turning and walking away with a quick, "I got it," thrown over his shoulder.

Once away from all of those eyes, he lifts a tray of food from the oven rack and sets it carefully on the stove top. And then he steps to the side and just leans against the counter with his forearms, picturing an awful train wreck in his mind's eye. He's not sure which situation he'd prefer.

He doesn't have time to make a decision on that one, though, because after a minute, Brennan ducks right into the kitchen and takes a spot next to him. They stand in silence for a few seconds until Sweets wrenches his gaze from some random spot on the marble countertop and glances her way. She's looking at him with a soft look in her eyes and a slight, halfhearted smile; it's a look his very own mother used to give him when she was alive. Pair that with the gentle hand she places on his forearm without a word, and he's got nothing but resolution that this is something he has to do.

Like a Band-Aid, he supposes.

He smiles back at her and turns to pick up the tray of food, the handles having cooled enough for him to touch it without getting burned.

He turns and leads the way back.

* * *

He sets the tray down on the table and sits down next to Brennan, feeling a million sets of eyes on him as he does.

He can't avoid them forever.

"Sorry," he says, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. He doesn't look at anyone, but rather a spot on the table cloth that's just slightly lighter than the rest of it. "That wasn't my announcement."

They knew that already, of course.

"Sorry to… dampen the day, I guess, but… the real announcement is, uh…"

"Are you leaving the FBI again?" someone asks, and without looking, he places the voice as Angela's. He shakes his head.

"No," he answers, but then he thinks about that. "No, I don't – I don't think so. I don't want to. But I mean – I kinda…"

He takes a deep breath and rips the Band-Aid off in one smooth sentence; and in the end, his skin is clean.

"I kind of have cancer. So, uh… yeah, that's… yeah."

And he smiles. A bittersweet upturn of his lips that's indicative of freedom, in spite of the clatter of a fork on someone's plate and the few murmurs of shock and worry around the table. He looks up and doesn't want to see the looks in everyone's eyes, but he does.

He supposes he'd have the same look of anxiety about him if it were him receiving the news. But then – he already did. But he's past it; he's calm, now, and perfectly at ease.

"What?" it's Cam, now, who's looking levelled and upset, and Sweets wishes he could just will away everyone's worry and concern and sympathy, but he can't. He can only listen and answer when she asks, "What do you mean? What kind of cancer?"

He answers simply, "It's called a desmoplastic small round cell tumor. Situated in my abdominal cavity. But hey, it's – it's fine. I'll be fine."

He's a liar, but it doesn't bother him in the slightest.

Hodgins speaks up, his voice unsteady as he asks, "Do you know that for sure?"

"Well, no… but…" he nods his head with fake confidence and hopes it gets across. "I'll be fine."

A nervous sort of silence settles over the table. And the next voice anyone hears is Brennan's, asking softly, "Are you okay?"

And he smiles.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm fine."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay! So there's the chapter. Hopefully things will pick up from here - if I can keep from taking like four months with every update. 
> 
> Okay, so, questions for you guys:
> 
> 1\. I meant to ask this when I last updated Immortals, but could someone just summarize the whole conspiracy arc? Especially the end of it, because I didn't watch 10x02. I meant to, but I didn't, haha. So I have no idea how the arc ended, and that info is kinda important for that story and possibly others. If someone could fill me in, that would be great!
> 
> 2\. Quick survey question: headcanon bisexual Sweets or nah? I'm debating with myself.
> 
> Alrighty, so thanks for reading/putting up with me! You guys are the best!


	11. Chapter 11

"You make yourself strong because it's expected of you. You become confident because someone beside you is unsure. You turn into the person others need you to be."  
― Jodi Picoult, _Vanishing Acts_

Day Eleven

One would think, perhaps, that as the days grow colder, inch towards that freezing point, the DC area would have seen _some_ snow by now. Just a week from December, certainly, it seems about time. But that, of course, is not the case; rainy days and muddy fields are the case, and that makes the hope for a snow day – admittedly after a four-day Thanksgiving weekend – a very empty one, indeed.

The result of that is a group of grumbling high school students climbing and sliding up a muddy incline in back of the building, leading up to the woods, with their steadfast teacher leading the way. At barely eight o'clock in the morning, the experience is far wide of pleasant.

"Thin sticks will be best," a wiry man with thick-rimmed glasses calls out as the students disperse. "You can fit more of them in your bag that way. And grab some dry pine needles for kindling!"

Amid the grumbling and groaning, he can't quite here the heavy sigh across the path.

"This project is _ridiculous_ ," one girl is saying to another, attempting to pull a twig from a fallen tree with one hand. It remains where it is, however – stubbornly and proudly. "Shouldn't our AP Physics projects have, I don't know, actual physics in them? Making stoves out of a bunch of damn cans and lighting fires in them is literally the stupidest thing ever."

The other runs a hand through her hair before bending down and grabbing a few damp sticks from the ground. As she straightens back up, she is in complete agreement, keeping her voice low as she replies, "Right? And I don't know if he notices –" She shakes some water off of her finds. "But there isn't a dry branch or anything out here! That's sort of what happens when it _rains_ the night before."

There's another sigh as the first girl keeps working on pulling that stubborn twig from the fallen tree. She pulls it from side to side, draws circles with it like on a joystick, and yanks – but to no avail. There it stays, and the idea of just giving up on it is tempting. But it's a matter of pride now, so she keeps on pulling until –

"Oh, _fuck_ –" she pitches backwards, her hand having slipped from the branch, and goes tumbling on down a slight decline in the path, and finds herself covered uncomfortably in mud. Among other things.

Across the way, that man with the glasses may not have heard the grumbling complaints just moments ago, but there was no way on Earth that he could miss the terrified shrieking of a student who just found herself covered in muddy, decomposed human remains.

* * *

The drive up to Maryland is not long by any FBI agent's standards. Roughly half an hour in traffic, it's nothing compared to some of the drives Seeley Booth has taken on any obscure case of the week. Some cases will take him to Virginia, driving an hour both ways; others bring him even deeper into Maryland, taking far longer.

Still, the ride up the interstate feels like forever. Like a death march, almost. The passenger in the car has to keep reminding himself that this is not, in fact, the case, but he can still feel his nerves eating away at him as they go. Uncertainty and vague fear are all he is as they pull in, and it is with pure willpower that he forces himself inside. Think closing your eyes and running through the rain in a downpour, gritting your teeth and bearing the cold, and you'll pretty much hit the mark. Except he's not running towards the promise of a warm, dry house; he's dragging his feet to a reception desk in a cancer center lobby. Very different things.

He hears Booth's phone go off somewhere behind him, but he pays it no mind as he flashes a soft smile at the woman behind the desk and starts talking before his nerve fizzles out.

"Hi," he says. "I'm Lance Sweets. I'm here for my appointment?"

She smiles back in greeting, a perfect little grin, and answers, "Hi, Lance Sweets! Let's see… P6?"

He nods.

"Okay, awesome! You just have a short form to fill out, so you can just take a seat over there and someone will be with you in just a few minutes. All good?"

He nods again and takes the clipboard from her hands before going to sit down in a small black chair by the far wall. Booth sits down beside him, absently nodding while continuing to talk on the phone.

It's a case. Sweets can tell that much by the strictly informational tone of Brennan's voice on the other end and the short fragments of answers Booth is responding with. From what he gathers, there's a new set of remains being sent to the Jeffersonian as they speak.

It's a case, he thinks, that he probably won't be a part of this time around.

The P6 protocol, as it had been explained to him, is an inpatient procedure. The first course of it is to last roughly five days, hopefully no more, and he can't help but think, _perfect._ Of all the terrifying, life-threatening illnesses he could have developed, he gets the one that demands the longest chemo rounds and longest time out of work. Even he can recognize when a vice has just been ripped from his own unwilling hands, and he doesn't like it one bit.

Nevertheless.

He fills out his forms while Booth talks beside him, and as soon as he hands them back to the receptionist, he sits back down and waits for what his life and the cancer center all have in store for him.

* * *

The nurse's hands are gentle and practiced as she sets up the drip, and after a few minutes, he's seated awkwardly in a chair with his sleeve rolled up to the elbow, hooked up by his vein to two bags of medicine that could potentially save his life hanging on a hook.

Once she's finished, she smiles at him, at Booth – who's standing just to the side, leaning against the bed in the room, staring on – and promises to send someone in to speak with him. She floats out of the room as quickly as she came in, and Sweets and Booth are alone once again.

It seems near impossible for them not to stare at the fist-sized bags on the hook for the longest time. Filling such an intimidating silence seems so threatening – but when Sweets finally turns his head, notices the suddenly-nervous look in Booth's eyes, he musters up the words to do it. He's certainly seen Booth nervous before – scared, angry, excited, and just about every emotion in between – but never quite like this.

Never about him. And he decides he doesn't like it. Not a bit.

"Hey," Sweets says, drawing Booth's attention. He gestures to the cell phone still held loosely in Booth's fingers. "Case?"

It seems to take a moment for the question to register, but once it does, Booth regains his composure. He nods.

"Yeah, yeah. Body found in the woods in back of a high school. When Cam called, Bones was busy picking bone fragments off of a teenage girl who fell on top. And from what they can tell, it's a woman. About forty-five. That's all they have so far."

Sweets nods, imagining the crime scene in his mind's eye. He never thought he'd feel such a strong need to be back at work, profiling away, but he supposes he'd feel that way about anywhere that wasn't here.

"You should go. They need you there."

"No," Booth says far too fast, almost automatically. "It's fine. I can stay a while longer."

And Sweets almost takes him up on that. Because he's quite certain that, excluding the few times he was almost killed by armed attackers, this is among the most terrifying things he's had to face. To go it alone is a frightening prospect.

But Booth is nervous as all hell, it's clear as day. And if Sweets is honest, he knows where the man is needed.

"You could, but think of the drive back. A pain, especially with the tourist-traffic heading into DC right about now. And they do need you there."

Booth seems unconvinced at first. So Sweets pushes on, the slight beginnings of a lighthearted smile on his face.

"I'm not about to kick you out, Booth, but you know where you need to be. Besides, I'm the one taking the sick days. Not you. You need to at least make it look like you're trying to be on time."

Booth pushes himself off the bedpost, takes a few uncertain steps across the floor. And he pauses, considering this.

After a long few moments, he slowly nods his head.

"I guess…. But you're _sure?_ You're feeling alright and everything?" he gestures to the chemo bags on the rack and Sweets can't help but give a quick laugh.

" _Yes,"_ he says. "I mean, I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure neither doxorubicin nor vincristine starts working in the first ten minutes. Now go – I'll be fine."

Booth steps towards the door, slowly, almost unwillingly. He pauses once more, and Sweets just sighs.

"Honest, I will. Besides, if you haven't noticed," Sweets holds up the arm with the IV attached to it, wiggles his fingers. "I'll be here for a while. You can always come back later."

And Booth hesitates, shifting his weight back and forth by the doorway. Eventually, he looks at Sweets and says, "Okay. But… I'll be back later. And just give me a call if you need anything, alright?"

"Deal. Now go. I'll catch you later."

Booth finally leaves, and Sweets is alone.

Neither of them particularly likes that fact. But that's how it must be.

They know this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a weak ending, but I'm eager to move forward. Fun fact: that physics project was my final project last year. Absolute bullshit. But I digress. Hope you liked it! :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I take forever to update on here -- I usually update on FF.net first, and then I forget to post here, so if I've been absent for awhile here, try checking my profile there for new chapters. And feel free to bug me to update if you'd like. God knows I need someone to do that. Anyway -- 
> 
> Finally a longer chapter! I was excited for this one. You know when you first start planning a story and you have a few key scenes in your head? This was one of them. :) Also: for some of the regular reviewers who don't log in, do you have any other social media accounts, like tumblr or twitter or whatever? Sometimes you guys leave such wonderful reviews that I really want to reply to in depth haha - plus you all seem like super cool people and I'd love to be friends! (You know, if that's okay, haha.)
> 
> That said - hope you like the chapter! Reviews make me smile!

* * *

"The human capacity for burden is like bamboo - far more flexible than you'd ever believe at first glance."

 _\- My Sister's Keeper,_ Jodi Picoult

* * *

Day Eleven

He finds out after about two long, boring hours that apparently doxorubicin and vincristine do start to work fairly quickly.

He finds out after five that anti-emetics don't work nearly as well as the doctors say they will. Also that taking deep, careful breaths doesn't help as much as it used to when he was feeling sick as a kid. With a heavy sigh, he sits back against the back of his chair with both arms crossed over his midsection, head tilted slightly back as he takes his deliberate breathes in vain. He keeps his jaw locked tight, still determined not to lose his breakfast just yet, but it's getting increasingly hard to think of anything but that growing possibility.

He thinks for a moment that if he could just fall asleep for a little while, maybe that would help. But screwing his eyes shut doesn't exactly make him sleep, and relaxing is rather difficult when his clothes are sticking to his skin and his insides are twisting around inside of him. Perhaps he's also just the slightest bit cranky by now, but he believes it's somewhat justified.

There's a sound in the door way, just then, a shuffle and a muffled bang followed by a tiny giggle that suddenly grabs his attention. Pulled from his thoughts, Sweets opens his eyes and looks over to find a tiny little girl – surely no more than three feet tall – leaning against the wall and excitedly peeking out into the hallway, as if she could be discovered any second but really wouldn't mind it if it happened. The smile stretching across her face is something contagious.

"Hey, hun," he says softly, grinning over at his tiny visitor. "What're you doing over there?"

And for a moment, she doesn't say anything, but keeps on giggling and laughing like this is the most fun she's had in the entirety of her short life. She's practically vibrating with enthusiasm, her dark curls bouncing up and down. Finally, though, she answers with slurred, simple words and an air of wonder radiating from her skin.

"Daddy can't find me!" she whisper-shouts, stumbling over to where Sweets is sitting upright and leaning forward to greet her, hands moved away from his stomach and into his lap. And, standing as tall as she can, she jabs a tiny thumb proudly at her chest and adds, "I am the hide-and-seek queen!"

"You are, are you? Well, how old is the hide-and-seek queen?"

Three fingers are practically shoved into his face as an answer.

"Oh my god!" he replies with all the enthusiasm in the world, grinning wildly. _"What_ a big girl! The hide-and-seek kingdom must be so fortunate to have you."

She bounces again, brimming with happiness at the thought.

"Yeah!"

He can't help but grin from ear to ear, can't help but laugh. And just when he's about to ask her about the finer details of her rule, there's another voice at the door – near exasperated, and perhaps the slightest bit embarrassed.

"Hey, _what are you doing in here?_ You weren't supposed to leave the room," a man says, a slight, vaguely oceanic accent to his voice, quickly entering and squatting down to the little girl's height. And without missing a beat, he turns his head in Sweets' direction. "I'm so sorry, man."

Still smiling, Sweets answers with a quiet chuckle, "Don't worry about it; I've been enjoying her company. In fact, I was just about to ask the hide-and-seek queen over here her name."

This earns him another giggle from Her Highness, and another excited jump.

"I'm Au _re_ lia!" she says, emphasizing the middle part as if it were difficult to hear.

And the man – a tall thirty-something, it seems, of whom the girl is the spitting image – smiles at her. "Aurelia what...?"

"Aurelia Rose White!"

"Well, it's great to meet you, Aurelia Rose White!" Sweets says, wiggling a few fingers in the air. "I'm Lance Sweets."

"Hi!" Queen Aurelia gives a spread-finger wave and another happy grin.

"Alright, alright," her father says, still crouched down on the floor. "Now why don't you go see what Mommy's up to? Okay?"

The little girl nods, shouts goodbye to her new-found friend, and skips out of the room, her hair bouncing all around her once again. Finally, the man stands up and offers a sheepish smile.

"Sorry about that, again. Hide-and-seek is her absolute favorite, and she goes hard."

"It's totally fine; I love kids," Sweets replies with a laugh, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you. Lance Sweets."

The handshake that follows is firm and amiable.

"So I've heard. Oliver White."

There's a quick pause, wherein the newcomer glances over to the IV drip hanging on the pole just feet away. A nod.

"So, P6, huh? How's it, being a first time chemo patient?"

And for a moment, Sweets is nearly stunned silent. But not quite.

"That obvious?"

There's a laugh as Oliver steps over to the bed just next to him and sits on the edge, his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah, mate. I mean, aside from the full head of hair," he says, running a hand over his own bare head. "You're wearing actual clothes. That's usually the giveaway."

After carding his fingers through his hair, Sweets first glances down at his own clothes, the pair of jeans and the sweater with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow; and then he looks over at Oliver, sporting a pair of sweatpants and an old-looking tee shirt. A pair of worn flip-flops on his feet, in spite of the cold outside, as opposed to the canvass sneakers on Sweets'.

Is _overdressing for chemotherapy_ even a thing? He can't quite find an answer, and hell if he brings himself to ask.

Instead, Oliver catches the slight look of uncertainty on his face and laughs.

"Don't even worry about it. No one cares," he gestures out to the hall, vaguely indicating the other patients that must be somewhere in the same wing. "Now come on, you didn't answer my first question. How're ya doing?"

At the words, Sweets is briefly reminded of the churning in his belly that never really went away, but quietly faded from the forefront of his mind. He runs his palm down his face, wiping away a barely-there film of sweat.

"I've been better," he admits, his voice even.

The other man takes this, offers a nod of his head as he answers, "I gotcha. Just let me know if you think you're gonna hurl, alright, mate?"

"Sure thing," Sweets replies with a thin smile, silently hoping to God that he won't have to. Instead of dwelling on any of that, though, Oliver goes right on.

"The first round is the worst, I'll tell you that. I remember mine; my wife dropped me off in the morning, but couldn't stay. Had to have Aurelia in day care by nine so she could get to work on time, so I was alone for a good coupla hours. Kept having to remind myself why I was there. It was just like… I'd have a book in my hand, right? And every couple of pages, I'd just look up. And I'd think, I'm in a cancer center. I'd look down at my wrist and think, this is a chemo drip. Every time, I had to remind myself that I was sick. It's hard to make the transition, I guess. Mentally, from healthy to sick. So I wouldn't blame you if you're not doing as well as you want people to think."

And the man trails off for a moment, leaving Sweets to marvel at the sudden admission. If he's honest, he pegged it exactly right. The psychologist wonders briefly when the moment will be, when he'll wake up one morning with the undeniable knowledge of his own illness instead of the momentary illusion that nothing at all is wrong. Something – or someone, sitting just beside him – gives him the impression that it will be soon.

"I don't know. But hey, I guess I can't complain so much. Lots of people got it worse, especially in the P6 wing."

And the first thing Sweets can think to say to that is, "Hey, don't even worry about that. Other people's suffering, whether it's better or worse, doesn't invalidate yours."

The second thing is a near-sheepish question. "But – if I can ask, you know, if you don't mind… what is your…?"

Oliver gives him a knowing smile.

"Always a top question when meeting someone new! Don't mind at all. I've got Ewing's Sarcoma. Started in my left arm. One remission and recurrence later, my arm's just fine, but my pelvis isn't happy. Still, with a seventy-five percent cure rate, I think I've got a pretty fair deal."

Sweets nods along, just imagining the pain of a bone cancer. Even so, Oliver seems the perfect optimist about it.

"And you? If you don't mind," he says, pushing himself off of the bed and going to read over the labels on the medicine bags. Hearing no immediate opposition, he doesn't wait for an answer; but as it turns out, he needs one.

"Alright, there's no way I can pronounce that. De…"

"Desmoplastic small round cell tumor," Sweets fills in, taking the words slowly himself as Oliver sits back down. "All up in my abdominal cavity."

"Ah. Sorry about that, man. Lots of syllables. Sounds rough."

Sweets has nothing to say to that. And after a long pause, all he can bring himself to do is gesture vaguely towards Oliver's wrist.

"So where's your line?"

This earns a bright smile from the older man, a new, excited air around him.

"Not here for chemo," he admits. "Here for observation and prep for surgery. I've got one tomorrow morning."

There's a pause.

"If it goes right, I'll be in remission again."

Sweets catches on quickly, as always, to the hesitation in his voice. "And if it goes wrong?"

The smile doesn't fall from Oliver's face at the possibility, but rather loses its intensity.

"Well, then I guess we'll be seeing a lot more of each other, huh? Which wouldn't be all bad. You seem like a pretty cool guy."

Sweets can muster up half a smile at that; but the desperate hope in the other man's voice is clear as day. It, like his daughter's wild grin, is contagious.

"Thanks," he replies with a faded chuckle in his chest. "Well, for what it's worth... I hope it goes right."

Oliver smiles back at him, and when he says nothing back, Sweets moves right on.

"So... if I'm to assume you were also on P6... what can I expect?"

"Well... let me think..." the man trails off for a moment, staring out into the hallway. The distant sound of Queen Aurelia's voice echoes off the walls, along with the sound of a woman's laugh. A bitter smile finds its way onto Oliver's face as he finally goes on. "You've caught on already that it's going to make you feel like crap. And then there's a whole mess of side effects that come on top of it, all listed on the back of the drip. I won't even get into radiation that much, but that's pretty much the same as far as feeling shitty goes. And you know the feeling... you know when you've had one of those really long days, and you come back home exhausted? Dead on your feet?"

Sweets nods, his mind immediately flashing back to being woken up at no later than three in the morning and subsequently coming home no earlier than eleven thirty. Out cold by eleven thirty-five.

"It'll be like that," Oliver continues. "But all the time. And don't even start me on hair! God, you know I used to have hair the exact same color as Aurelia's? She got the curls from Clara, but the color came from me. If my hair ever grows back the same way, I'll be a lucky man. But aside from that… I'm going to assume you work, yeah? What do you do?"

"I'm a psychologist. I work for the FBI, mainly on homicide cases."

And the other man's eyebrows shoot up in silent approval, a sparked interest that lasts a fraction of a second before he starts shaking his head.

"Well, good luck on that. You'll miss a lot of work. And get someone to check over your reports and everything; you won't be able to pay attention for shit. Meds mess with your head a bit."

Just that very idea is unsettling. The look on Sweets' face reflects that perfectly, and Oliver catches it right away.

"But," he adds on with a reassuring nod, "it'll be worth it. Once you're in remission… once you can actually think, and go back to your life, and do things with your family again, you'll think… you'd do it a thousand times if it kept you here."

Sweets thinks about the sick feeling in his stomach for half a second, and compares it to the feeling that always settled there whenever Daisy would walk into a room, way back when, when they were together. Compares it to the wide happiness that practically flows right from Christine to everyone around, him included. The feeling of pride when a case gets closed, the half-second of fear during the climax of a horror film, the drop on a rollercoaster.

Just the thought of losing any of these things – it makes him sick.

He nods at Oliver, a sudden tightness in his throat inhibiting words for a long, stretching moment. And then the woman somewhere down the hall laughs, the little girl giggling along in perfect time.

With half a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Sweets whispers, "What's your life like? Minus the cancer."

And the air of pure joy returns as the other man grins like nothing else.

"Minus the cancer," he says, a light shining behind his blue eyes. "It's incredible. Clara and I are going on five years together in December – and we're almost done paying off our house. She's a – she's a scientist. Studies space, all those planets and galaxies up there. And me, I'm a writer. So what we used to do… what we used to do before I got sick was just go up to the roof late at night. She'd point out all the constellations to me, draw them into the air. She'd tell me about the stars and all those planets. And then we'd lie together… and I'd tell stories. I'd tell her poems I'd memorized, ideas I'd have for books. We'd talk about plans we had to travel. Vacations we'd go on with Aurelia."

He pauses, turns his head to stare at the far wall.

"I want to do that again. Maybe after remission, once I don't always have to worry about catching a damn infection. Maybe then…"

He trails off, and before he can start speaking again, he's cut off by a sudden, barely audible _gurgle_. At the interruption, he turns his head back to look at Sweets, who's sitting on the very edge of his seat, wide-eyed, leaning forward with his free hand pressed against his stomach.

"You okay, mate?"

"I, uh…" the younger man starts to nod his head, but pauses. Oliver stares, just barely catching the pale flush of green that settles on his face as he forces down a swallow.

Sweets brings his other hand – the one with the line in it – to rest over his mouth. The sound of his voice that follows is nearly muffled by his fingers, but Oliver hears it well enough.

" _IthinkI'mgonnahurl,"_ Sweets chokes out, and suddenly he thinks that Oliver White _must_ be a chemo veteran. Because he wastes no time grabbing the basin from the stand by the bed and shoving it into the psychologist's hands in the same second.

And while embarrassment tugs on the edge of his mind, Sweets can't help but appreciate the firm hand Oliver has on his shoulder as he starts to puke up whatever he'd eaten last.

"Come on," Oliver says next, gently guiding him up from his chair. He's entirely undeterred by the sight, and switches immediately into some other disposition, perhaps that of an older brother who just _knows_. "Those basins suck. I've got your line."

And the older man wheels the IV pole into the connected bathroom behind Sweets and rips the drain guard up just before he loses the rest of his breakfast, white-knuckling the edge of the sink.

"Shit," is all Sweets can say between two breaths, while Oliver's hand still rests on his shoulder – just over the scars he'll never know about.

God, he must look pitiful. Still, the man grips his shoulders, keeps him straight, and doesn't begrudge him for it. And as soon as he's reduced to dry heaving and gasping breathes, Oliver thrusts a glass of water into his hands, waits for him to rinse his mouth out and drink, and pulls the line back as he guides him back to his chair.

Sweets is a mess of gratefulness, but can only gather the energy to say, "Thanks."

Unsurprisingly, Oliver flashes him a grin.

"Don't mention it, mate. Man, if only I'd had someone like me during my first round," he says, throwing him a wink. "But a serious tip for ya – keep hydrated. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. No new friend of mine is going to kick cancer and then get sick from dehydration. No, sir."

Sweets offers a quarter of a tired smile, a silent thanks. And while he doesn't quite share the man's optimism about kicking it, he appreciates the tip. He appreciates everything, right down to the sudden declaration of new-found friendship. Perhaps that most of all.

With that, Oliver stands up and gently claps Sweets' shoulder once more.

"Well, it's great to meet you, Lance. I guess I've bothered you enough for now," he says with a contented sigh. And with a pointed look, he adds, "Try to get some sleep. Look like you need it."

And with a rising feeling of disappointment, Sweets nearly brings himself to ask him to stay for just a few minutes longer. Hearing life stories, while part of his job, had always been a pleasure – and he'd certainly enjoyed hearing Oliver White's. But then he hears Clara's distant counting and Aurelia's never-ending giggles, and decides that Oliver should get back to it.

So he nods, and offers what is probably the sincerest _thank you_ of his life.

"My pleasure," the man replies. "And I'll be up and around for a while yet. If you need me, I'm three rooms down."

With that, he disappears from the room. And luckily, Sweets doesn't have to dwell on being alone again for very long; exhaustion starts tugging his eyelids down, and within seconds, his head is resting comfortably against the back of his chair.

He falls asleep to the distant sound of another game of hide-and-seek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing children. I work with children about Aurelia's age (actually where I pulled her first name from haha) and there's just something so pure about them. They're honest, and they approach the world with such a sense of wonder.
> 
> Not the last appearance of these characters! I love them too much already. Maybe I'll write a spin-off someday about Oliver; who knows?
> 
> But I'll stop rambling for now haha. Once again, reviews would be lovely! Hope you liked it!


	13. Chapter 13

Day Eleven (cont.)

It is the shrill ringtone of his phone cutting into his head that forces his eyes open, and to his absolute displeasure, he wakes with a miserable gag and the sudden realization that he hadn't quite emptied his stomach the first time he was leaned over the sink. Pitching forward just slightly, he clasps one hand over his mouth and the other over his belly, just as before, but this time he forces the bile rising in his throat back down. It takes a few more seconds of quick, deep breaths, but as soon as he's halfway confident he can open his mouth without consequence, he reaches for his phone.

It's Booth on the other end; as if it would really be anyone else. He clears his throat and answers.

"Hey," he says, a pleasant air to his voice that surprises even himself.

He'd find the same tone in Booth's voice if he were a poorer listener. But the psychologist in his head picks up on the well-concealed nerves. He always does.

"Hey! Just thought I'd call and see how you're doing. I'd be over there right now, but I've got interrogations back to back."

"Don't worry about it," Sweets replies with a halfhearted smile the other man can't see. He can only hope he does a good enough job concealing the relief in his chest; while the truth is that he'd be hard-pressed to turn away company, an even bigger truth is that he's already been sick in front of one person today, and it's not a trend he'd like to continue. "I'm fine."

From across the room, he catches his reflection in the window as he trails off, wonders when, exactly, all the color had drained from his face. But that's minor. What's far more interesting is the sudden revelation that he can lie like the best of them when there's no one around to see.

Praise be to cell phones.

"How's the case going?" he adds in before Booth can question him, and it works. The agent launches right in, describing what details he knows about the latest woman on the slab. An English teacher, Lorraine Peters had gone missing several weeks ago after failing to show up for her classes. The first interview, the one with her wife, revealed the same things as every other: everyone loved her. No possible enemies whatsoever, no fights, no arguments.

And yet, as Booth explains – she still managed to find herself dead in the back woods with a snapped neck. Or so the preliminary examination of the remains would suggest.

Either way, there's another interview in ten minutes with the school's principal. Booth says as much. And then he pauses.

"What are visiting hours like there?" he asks suddenly. "I forgot to check. Max has Christine, so Bones and I can pop over after work."

And Sweets is thankful that he doesn't have to lie when he answers, "It's until eight, I think."

He glances up at the clock on the wall to find that it's already six o'clock; he's been here for eight hours. A quick look at the IV pole would show two new drip bags hanging from the hook – switched while he was dozing off, no doubt – and a third suddenly hanging just beside them. He can just barely make out the name _Cyclophosphamide_ on the smallest part of the label.

"So don't worry about it tonight," the psychologist adds, knowing full well that the agent's work schedule and the length of the drive would make visiting impossible. It's a bittersweet relief he's feeling, but he supposes it's something. There is silence on the other end for a moment.

"Okay," Booth says, seemingly at a loss. "Anything I can do, you just let me know, alright?"

"Yeah, of course. Anything I can do for you? Need any profiles, or…?"

Just the brief hope of there being some work for him to do excites him, but, as he honestly expected, Booth says no. Nothing yet. (And part of Sweets wants desperately to call bullshit on that, because there's almost always something for him at the start of a case. Analyze the body disposal, go over interview tapes, _anything._ But he says nothing.)

The conversation is over in the span of five minutes, and once he hangs up, Sweets can't help but wonder what he would be doing if he were not stuck in a cancer center. In some other reality, one where he was perfectly fine and healthy and whole, he'd like to think he'd be joining Booth in the interrogations. Giving interviews, putting together the first preliminary profiles of the case.

And to think, he once hated Mondays.

* * *

Day Twelve

"Defensive wounds on the fronts of the metacarpals on both hands," Daisy Wick says into the table, her voice quite the intelligent mumble. "That indicates a struggle. Based on the locations of the fractures, I'd say a long, thin weapon could have been used, correct?"

Brennan looks over from where she's standing by the skull and looks over the victim's hands for a moment, notes the fractures spanning across the bones in a near-straight line.

"A sound observation, Miss Wick. It's possible. Also consider the possibility that the killer could have used the handle of an object to inflict them. So, while that does not give us an entirely clear picture of a possible weapon used, it eliminates many other things. Good work."

The time ticks by, minute by minute. Ante mortem stress fracture after postmortem break, hairline crack after childhood injury. Each and every bug species found within arm's length of the victim is recorded, analyzed. Tox screen samples are sent out on time, as per usual.

This is their typical _normal_. Every microsecond of investigation, all the same routine they fall perfectly into every time.

The new normal, however, makes itself apparent when Brennan's phone rings about halfway through the morning. The gloves come off her hands with a snap, and her side of the conversation echoes freely through the lab.

"Brennan," she answers, and while work around her certainly continues – it seems to slow, just the slightest bit. A pause, and she answers into the line. "Okay... Good. What time would you like to – yes. That sounds fine. Thanks for the call."

As any of the anthropologist's conversations are, it is short and to the point. She hangs up her phone and slides it back into her pocket, and she waits until she's got a new set of latex gloves on her hands to take note of the looks of anticipation being sent her way.

"It was Booth. According to what he's heard, everything is going satisfactorily."

The atmosphere in the room changes instantly then, as if the walls themselves breathed a sigh of relief at the assurance. Everyone goes back to work at normal speed – except for, perhaps, Daisy. She never slowed in the first place. Instead, as Brennan makes her way back to the slab, the intern silently offers a confused, slightly concerned look.

It dawns on Brennan just then that Ms. Wick, having been absent at Thanksgiving dinner, simply doesn't know the reason for the call, the reason for the room's hesitant charge. She opens her mouth to fill in the information gap – but pauses mid-breath.

Even Temperance Brennan, for all her social shortcomings, can recognize when something is not hers to share. So she shuts her mouth. All she brings herself to do, now, is nod.

Everything is fine, after all.

The both of them return to work on that silent cue.

* * *

Sweets learned last week that Doctor Alice Roden is a dark, petite woman with kind eyes and a reassuring smile, with more compassion in her body than there is in three average people put together. And he discovers today, in the later hours of the morning, that the oncologist tends to alternate between two demeanors: gentle and comforting – and strictly to-the-point.

It is the latter that walks into his room, first saying _good morning_ , and then getting down to it.

"I meant to pop in last night, but I got caught up with other patients. Sorry about that. How are you doing? Any questions, anything I should know about?"

And with his head propped up by one hand as he sits back in the chair by the bed, all he can bring himself to tiredly say is, "I'm doing okay."

Which is the truth, because – more or less – he feels alright. The hand that isn't holding his head up is keeping his place in the book on his lap, and over the course of the morning, he's read a good chunk of it with no interruptions. Still, even he can recognize that his answer is lacking, so he's unsurprised when Roden asks him more, glancing back and forth between him and a clipboard full of notes.

"Nurse Davis mentioned mild vomiting last night. Are you still feeling nauseous at all?"

He shakes his head.

"No," he says. "It passed. I'm just tired now, that's all."

And Roden nods at that, gently scribbling something down.

"Okay, that's normal. So I can assume you ate breakfast this morning, right?"

Sweets assures her that she can, because it's the truth. That truth is acceptable to the doctor, who takes it and moves forward from there.

"Good," she answers, placing her pen back into her pocket. "Be sure to let me know if that changes, so we can work on switching to another antiemetic if we need to. In the meantime, I'm going to send a nurse over to administer a Mesna dose. That's oral, so you won't have any more drip bags or IV ports for now. It's a supplementary drug to prevent internal bleeding, to go along with your chemotherapy. You'll be taking a prescription home with you."

The psychologist nods along.

"Any questions?"

And he pauses for a second, straightening up in his chair and gathering his words.

"Uh… yeah. Not – not medication related, though. When do you think I'll be able to go back to work? Between rounds, I mean. Any idea?"

As an answer, she starts by pulling up a calendar on her cell phone and showing it to him.

"It depends on you, really," she explains, gesturing to different squares on the calendar. "You're set to finish this round on the thirtieth, which would give you about three work weeks in between rounds to work. In theory, provided you make sure to avoid catching any contagious illnesses, you could go back to work the next workday after this cycle's finished. Or, since you do mainly office work, you could even work from home. But remember, that's in theory; in reality, you might not feel up to work, and that's normal. Just feel it out and listen to your body, and you should be fine."

Sweets considers this for a moment, nods his head.

His next question is far more pertinent.

"And… you know, all of this," he starts, waving his hand up at the drip bags. He has to take a deep breath before he finishes. "It's… it'll work. Right? You think so?"

The pause Roden takes is less taken in surprise and more as means to construct her answer. After giving it thought, she speaks slowly and carefully, and Sweets gets the impression that her first, default demeanor – the one of gentle compassion – is returning in full force.

"It should. So far, the general medical consensus, as well as past treatments, suggest that it should work. Soft tissue sarcomas are generally very chemosensitive, so that's favorable. But I can't – I really can't offer more than a prediction. And I'm sorry for that. You know by now, I'm sure, that you can't tell for sure what's going to happen."

A nod.

"And what if it doesn't work?"

A beat.

"If it doesn't work," the oncologist starts, and breathes a sigh. "We'll have to feel it out, then. I'm sorry I can't give you much more than that."

He just nods to that, long past that state of constant fear. Still, Roden keeps her reassuring tone in place and adds on.

"But what you also need to remember is that we are going to do everything we can. Try everything we need to try to get you into remission. We're all fighters here."

His final question after that – spoken after a few moments' pause, with the slightest hesitation – is far less self-involved. Once Roden finishes checking vitals and stats, he turns his head back her way.

"Speaking of remission… I know there's probably a lot of confidentiality involved, and you probably can't talk about your patients, but… there was a guy down the hall who was supposed to have a surgery this morning. Oliver White?" he raises his voice toward the end, as if asking to verify his name. But Roden catches his point and nods her head; she knows him. She performed the surgery herself. "He, um – he's gonna be okay, right? His surgery went okay?"

And Roden looks oddly down at the patient beside her and says, "Well, you're right in that there is a lot of doctor-patient confidentiality, and discussing his medical condition with another patient would be unethical."

A pause.

"However," she says, and a slight smile creeps onto her face. "I can say that he is a very happy, very lucky man."

* * *

He knocks on the door softly, a gentle tap of his knuckles that barely echoes anywhere, and he considers it a miracle that someone hears. He hadn't even expected him to be awake – but still, that unmistakable Oceanic accent starts up right away from behind the door. Sweets smiles.

"Yeah? Come in," the voice is quiet, still sleepy around the edges of his words. When Sweets finally pushes the door open, he finds the face to perfectly match the voice, with Oliver's half-opened, just slightly dilated eyes looking at him with a sudden, personable happiness.

"Well, hey there, Sharkbait," the man says, his grin a perfect copy of his daughter's from the day before.

Sweets pulls his own IV pole into the room with him as he enters, now looking at Oliver with a sort of amused curiosity.

"Sharkbait?"

"Yeah, _Sharkbait,"_ comes the reply, followed by a slight giggle. "Y'know Aurelia's favorite movie for two years was _Finding Nemo?_ We had two consecutive fish-themed birthday parties. And ya know Sharkbait – the name they gave the little fish when he came into the tank?"

Sweets offers a laugh as he pulls the chair in the room up close and sits down.

"And that must make you Gil, huh? The freshwater vet, the one with the scars?"

"Yes, indeed!" is Oliver's response, given with a big nod of his head. Sweets glances up at the older man's IV line and wonders for a moment just what kind of painkillers he's on, but his attention is stolen again by the other man's continued talking. "That'd be me. Good ol' Gil. Y'know, I'd bet I'd look pretty cool with a coupla scars."

A wide grin starts spreading across Sweets' face as the psychologist gestures loosely at Oliver's body.

"Bet you'll have a few really cool ones from that surgery this morning. Speaking of it," he pauses, trying to gauge Oliver's reaction. Judging by the happiness in his eyes, he must already know. Sweets goes on. "I hear you're gonna be okay."

And Oliver White could be the happiest man in the world in that moment, just going by the size, the intensity of his smile.

"I hear that, too. Too, too, remission number two. We'll see," is his response, his voice starting to go rough by the end of his phrase. Sweets stands from his chair.

"Here," Sweets reaches for a cup of water on a nearby stand and holds it out for the other man to drink from the straw. Once he's finished, the water goes back to its place and he sits back down.

"If only you'd had someone like me after your first surgery, huh?" the psychologist continues, humor clear in his voice.

And Oliver just rolls his head in Sweets' direction, offering a lopsided grin as he says, "Well, Clara was here after the first one. She was great."

"Shh," Sweets says lightly, leaning back in his chair. "Just let me enjoy the parallel."

They stay just like that, with Sweets sitting patiently in the chair by the bed until Oliver finally drifts off again. And then Sweets stays for just a little longer, quietly lingering until the sun rises in the sky and the light through the window just barely touches the edge of his chair.


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

"See, but... that's bullshit. That's what everyone has been telling me since the beginning.  
"Oh, you're gonna be okay," and "Oh, everything's fine," and like, it's not... It makes it worse."

\- Adam Lerner, "50/50"

* * *

What the FBI finds out quickly is that all was not perfect in the professional life of Lorraine Peters. Her students liked her well enough; that much was clear from the interviews, both with the high school's principal and with a former student. The teacher's wife even went on and on about how much she had loved teaching. It was Peters' passion, she'd said: she loved everything about it.

The only problem, it seems, was that the rest of the teaching staff did not quite love her.

After two dragging days of interviews, observation of the school building, and following word of mouth, three other district employees stood out: all teachers and faculty with quiet grudges based solely on thinly veiled homophobia. All fairly muscular, all at least six feet tall, consistent with what the physical evidence suggests. Soon, after further sifting, only two employees remained – both male, consistent with the eagerly provided profile Sweets cranked out before Booth and Brennan even left the cancer center.

Once the tox screen results came back, noting sky-high levels of rohypnol in the victim's system – that's when things started to get interesting. And interesting they still remain as the investigation continues, the team's wheels just starting to gain proper traction on the lab floor.

* * *

Day Fourteen

The fever starts up around the same time that the vomiting comes back; at least, this is what Sweets is left to belief, since he was woken up sometime after three in the morning – and they were both miraculously there.

So he finds himself once again leaned over the bathroom sink, this time actually _shivering_ as he heaves up whatever he'd eaten the day before. He can't quite remember what it was, and in that particular, miserable moment, he's quite sure he doesn't want to.

There's a second call button on the wall just next to him. A small convenience, it seems. He notices it just as he's lifting his head up, and without thinking too clearly on it, he jabs it with his thumb.

It takes a few minutes for a nurse to come by, and he hears her enter in a small moment of reprieve.

"Hey, Lance?" she gently taps on the bathroom door Sweets never realized was closed. "Everything okay?"

And what can he say? He's still panting over the edge of the sink, moments away from losing even more of his most recent meal – breathless and lost for words.

But then he glances down, by pure chance, at his left arm: the IV port is gone. What's left is a few drops of blood and a rounds of darkening bruises around the injection site.

So he invites the nurse in with an airy reply that sits strangely in his throat.

"I knocked my line out."

* * *

"The fever's not too high," the nurse says, placing a gentle hand on his back. "102.1. Nothing we can't handle."

They're still in the bathroom, the air around them hot and sour, and he tries to think better of it, he really does. But he can't help himself.

He replies, just seconds before another dry heave wracks him through:

" _Is that supposed to make me feel better?"_

* * *

The cause of death was ultimately determined to be strangulation. The victim's other wounds and fractures, while severe, seem to pale in comparison to the damage done on the bones surrounding her windpipe.

Therefore – the murder weapon is chalked up to be the killer's hands. The other wounds, according to Angela's simulator, were the direct result of the handle of a golf club being angrily, repeatedly swung in Peters' direction.

In a turn of events, the hands that swung the club and subsequently ended a life belong solely to a man named Geoff Parker, his name being introduced by pure chance.

A male, like the profile suggests, and six-foot one, like the evidence does. The only shocker, so to speak, was that he wasn't a school employee.

As Peters' wife explained: "She dated Geoff before me. And she never told me when she was going to go, but recently he'd called – wanting to get together for lunch sometime. You know, just to catch up. See how she was doing. It sounded innocent enough, but…"

She supposes killers always do. And as the case closes, she leaves it at that.

* * *

During the earlier hours of the afternoon, Sweets considers the following: Booth, though he'd be hard-pressed to admit it out loud, wants to feel helpful. Productive. The guy spends his workday being the perfect embodiment of those two traits, and to suddenly feel useless in what must seem an important form – well, consider that an impulse that slows him down far too quickly. It jolts him, in a sense, the same way a brick wall stops a speeding car.

So the perfect way to remedy that, Sweets finds, stems from the fact that he is _freezing._ And while his heavy winter coat hangs over the edge of the bed, it won't exactly do; the sweatshirt laid over the back of a chair in his bedroom at home, on the other hand, is becoming clearer and clearer in his mind's eye, and far more tempting. In light of everything – he doesn't quite mind asking Booth to grab it for him, as long as he was going to drive up anyway.

There's a spare house key taped to the underside of his porch, reachable by kneeling and groping at the underside of the wood panels. Since Sweets never received another call or text from the older agent, he's left to assume he found it easily enough.

Booth did; and upon entering the cancer center thereafter, he greets Sweets by lightly tossing the garment over the shrink's head.

"Hey, thanks," Sweets says with a smile as he wastes no time in pulling it over his head. What follows – though entirely logical – is not something he'd foreseen. Nor is it particularly satisfactory.

Booth replies easily, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, just next to Sweets' chair, "No problem. How're you doing?"

"Doin' alright," is the response given, in spite of the light shakes he desperately hopes are invisible under the sweatshirt. If they're not, Booth doesn't comment on it as he's pulling off his own jacket and rolling his shirt sleeves up to the elbow.

What he ultimately comments on is something entirely different.

"Good. So listen," he starts. "I went over to your house, right? Found the key, no problem. House was empty, like I expected, since it was half past one. Most people aren't home at half past one. But the thing is…"

It seems rather delayed, but by the end of Booth's pause, Sweets catches right on. And he can't quite keep from freezing in his seat, clenching his jaw just slightly as Booth goes on, in spite of the psychologist's silent wish for him to trail back off.

"The thing is that a few pieces of furniture downstairs were gone. So – emptier than I thought. And then – and _then_ – I went upstairs. Wasn't hard to find your room, Sweets, because the only other bedrooms on the floor were _completely_ empty."

And the position Sweets finds himself in as he runs a hand slowly through his hair is that of meek acceptance. It's that of a man who knows full well that he's about to get an earful of _something_.

"You wanna tell me about that? Why a house with three people suddenly has just one bed?"

Sweets says absolutely nothing at first; he sits in the center of an expectant quiet, as if ignoring the question could somehow make the entire conversation disappear entirely. But he's no stranger to unpleasant conversations, really. A few other people know about his cancer by now, don't they? Sometimes difficult conversations just need to be had. Still – he doesn't have to like them.

"You want me to answer that, don't you?" the shrink finally says, and at Booth's simple nod, he takes a deep breath and does just that.

"It's really just… the lease was up two weeks ago. Just a couple days before…" he gestures loosely to his own middle. "You know. And I was the only one to renew it. They'd already decided not to. Janet got another job in Virginia, and Chrissy wanted to move closer to her family. So they took whatever furniture belonged to them and left a few days before I came in for chemo."

And while Sweets is normally so damn _good_ at judging emotion – Booth's face is impossible to read as he quietly asks, "Did they know?"

He shakes his head.

"No," Sweets answers. "I never told them about the cancer. Figured that'd be a pretty terrible way to say goodbye to your roommates."

And what more can he say about it? Sweets trails off, and Booth just rubs a hand down his face as the silence spreads around them. And finally –

"And you never said anything? You didn't think to tell me, or –"

"What did you want me to say?" God, Sweets can't help it. Frustration is lapping at the corners of his mind, and he finds his own mental filter to be lagging. Besides – at this point, he's quite sure he's earned a good snap or two. "I didn't think I needed to tell you absolutely _everything,_ and it wasn't exactly the most important thing that happened last week. Besides, it doesn't matter anyway."

"It doesn't matter? You're paying three times as much rent as before, and –"

"Rent was never the problem. I was going to lease the house anyway, remember? The only reason we lived together was that we were all interested in living there. I can still afford it by myself."

" _And,"_ Booth repeats, far from satisfied with the reasoning. "You're on chemo now, and…"

A pause – and Booth continues, "You're coming home with Bones and me tomorrow."

"Booth –"

"You're on chemo, and you live alone now, Sweets. Sorry if I don't think that's a great mix."

Sweets is sitting up now, straightening his back as tall as he can make it and insisting, "Look, cancer or no cancer, I can still take care of myself. I'm fine, and I'd really just prefer to go home."

Booth sighs, "Sweets, I know you don't want people to know when you don't feel well. I get it. But I can _see_ you shivering, even when the thermostat by the door is set all the way up. And I don't know everything about the treatment you're on, but I know it can't be fun."

"Can we talk about this tomorrow?" Sweets interjects during a natural break in the older man's speech. Letting out a seemingly pent up breath, Booth nods.

"Yeah," he says, running a hand through his hair but conceding nevertheless. "Fine. We'll talk about it tomorrow. Just – just wish you'd let us help you, Sweets."

And while this seems at first the right verbal cue for an exit, Booth stays right where he is. Sitting on top of the bed, averting his eyes to the wall – remaining in solidarity, avoiding as much resistance as he can.

"I would. I promise I would, if I needed it," Sweets answers quietly, some of the frustration in his veins ebbing away. Some.

"I just don't need it."

And they say nothing more on the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok so, I botched the case, but I needed it to be over. Any ideas on how to improve that section? Thanks! :)


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

"When you love someone, you let them take care of you."

\- Jodi Picoult

* * *

Day Fifteen

When eight o'clock rolls around, two things happen: the first is that snow starts falling from the hazy morning sky, and he can't tell if it's sticking to the ground or not because he's on the second floor and doesn't quite feel like going to the window to check. Eventually he just assumes that it's not. That's just how the weather's been.

The second is that a nurse comes in to change the drip bags for the last time, promising surely that he'll be on his way home in just a few more hours. He thanks his stars for that, since he's still got a steady temperature of 101 on the dot, and the decision to forego breakfast was a completely conscious one. The voice in the back of his head was worried as a result that they would keep him here longer, but that doesn't seem to be the case.

Booth pops in sometime around ten, and even though Sweets has practically spent the morning bracing for more unwanted conversation, it never comes. What comes instead is idle talk of the end of the most recent case, a list of Christine's most recently learned words and the tones with which she says them, and a gentle – thankfully far from overbearing – question of how he's doing.

And though Sweets is tired of hearing that question by now, he appreciates the lightness of Booth's tone nevertheless. It suggests that Sweets answer could even be honest, and the chance of a knee jerk reaction would somehow be far smaller than it's been. He couldn't ask for anything better.

Still, Sweets watches his phrasing of the partial truth.

"I'm doing alright," he says, not entirely lying. "Fever's a drag, but other than that…."

(Other than that is the fact that he hasn't eaten in a day and a half, and a few small sores have already started popping up on the insides of his cheeks, but those are just finer details.)

The subject changes quickly, and by eleven o'clock, both the same nurse as before and Dr. Roden are coming in and getting things done. The nurse gently pulls the line from his arm, and as soon as the needle's gone, he opens and closes his left hand a few times, tests his wrist. And aside from the faint soreness and yellowed bruises, he decides he's fine.

As the nurse gathers up the equipment and leaves with the emptied chemo bags in hand, Roden hands him a folded pamphlet and once again chooses a firm demeanor as she lays out her terms.

"Alright, Lance, you're free to go. Just a few things I want you to do for me between now and your next round, okay?" she says, and Sweets nods. Both he and Booth are tuned in as she continues, "Obviously, chemotherapy comes with its share of side effects, and each person tends to tolerate P6 a little differently. I gave you essentially a condensed version of what the drug facts will tell you, as well as a few after-chemo tips; there are lists of unintended effects associated with each drug, sorted by severity and how common they are. I want you to make a list in the next few weeks of what you experience. Just write it all down. There will probably be a few things that won't be too serious, in which case I just want you to pay attention and make sure nothing gets worse. If something more serious pops up, just call right away. Got it?"

Sweets clears his throat and nods, offers a firm, "Yeah, I got it."

"Good. Other than that, just remember to be even more careful around anyone who might be sick, since your immune system is going to take a hit. Eat frequent, small meals, get eight to ten hours of sleep each night, you get the deal."

And before she leaves, she hands him the two small orange pill bottles she promised him earlier in the week: an antiemetic and Mesna pills.

Sweets and Booth leave almost immediately. The psychologist is already dressed – relatively, with a pair of jeans and the green hoodie the older agent brought the day before – and just needs to grab his coat and his bag before he checks out and follows Booth to the car.

* * *

A wheelchair rolls by him on his way down the hall, and it's the bouncy haired girl sitting on her father's lap who greets him first as they pass.

"Bye, Lance!" she says, smiling and offering a clumsy spread-finger wave, and Oliver White, using one hand to keep his daughter secure and the other to slow the left wheel, just bobs his head in the younger man's direction.

"Catch ya later, Sharkbait," he grins, and if Booth is confused by this, he says nothing about it.

"Hope not," Sweets replies earnestly, but when Oliver points out that he'll be back and forth for a while yet – for therapy, for periodic scans and tests, for whatever will keep his cancer from coming back – Sweets decides it's very likely they'll meet again.

"See you later, Queen Aurelia," he adds with a smile in his eyes as he and Booth start to walk away. "You take good care of your kingdom, alright?"

She readily agrees – and they part ways.

* * *

The cold air hits him like a tangible force the second he leaves the building, and he's thankful the car isn't parked too far away from the entrance. As he pulls the passenger side door open, he notices that the snow has finally started to stick to the grass, the pavement, and the trees' bare branches overhead. It swirls down gently, and seems to be here to stay.

* * *

The third intersection just off the exit ramp of the highway presents them with two options: if Booth goes straight through the light and navigates through a few more local roads, they would be pulling up Sweets' driveway in no more than ten minutes. Booth and Brennan's house is roughly the same distance away – but only if Booth makes a right and takes another district route a few miles down.

Currently, they're stopped at the red light, just a few car lengths away from the stop line. Booth's directional is tilted up, and gentle clicking hums through the car.

They'd skipped this conversation in the cancer center, but perhaps they shouldn't have. Perhaps then Sweets' campaign to go straight home wouldn't entirely rely on the moment when he lifts his head from the back of the seat and looks over at Booth and quietly says, "Come on, Booth. Please."

(And he hates the way he sounds as tired as he is. If he's completely honest, his eyelids have been heavy and stiff for the last hour, and he's about ready to fall asleep any second. Booth could probably pick any destination he chooses and receive little to no resistance.)

The agent doesn't say anything when he looks over at Sweets. But after the light finally turns green and the cars in front of him go through – he offers a conceding sigh and moves straight through the light.

* * *

Sweets finally ends up dozing off five minutes out from his house, but as soon Booth nudges him awake and he pulls his eyes open to stare at his own garage door, he lets out a breath of relief.

Once he enters, and just seconds after closing the door behind him and Booth, his face immediately finds the couch pillows, and he finds himself more than willing to stay asleep on the sofa for the rest of the day.

The hand pulling him back upright by his shoulders does not seem quite as willing to let him.

"Nope, not right now," Booth is saying to him as he scrubs at his eyes with the bases of his palms. "You won't sleep tonight."

"Thanks, Dad," Sweets sighs, just a ghost of an exhausted smile on his face. In spite of the direction, and in spite of his own will, his eyes only sit half-open.

"Yeah, yeah," Booth replies, sitting down next to him. "I'm staying for a while. Whether you like it or not, since you're not staying with us."

"Don't you have work to do? Pretty sure Friday is still a workday."

"Files and paperwork for now. Nothing I can't do at home," Booth promises, and that makes Sweets' eyes pop open in a half-second realization; he's got a week's worth of files to go through and case reports to go over and profiles to approve. But Booth brushes it all off. "Don't worry about it right now. You can get to it later. Now come on – what are you up for? A movie or something?"

Sweets considers it for a moment, but in the end, it's difficult to drag his mind away from the feeling that he should be doing _something_. Even so – he's far too tired to entertain it, and he finds he doesn't care all that much about anything else. He even says it, too, telling the man next to him, "Honestly, whatever you want."

A sigh.

"Fine. As long as you're letting me choose – you've seen the newer Star Trek films, right?"

"Alternate Original Series, yup," Sweets replies slowly, his eyelids still hovering halfway. The soft clicking of the television as Booth navigates through echoes around the living room.

As Booth presses play on his chosen movie, he clarifies: "Well, I never saw the second one. How is it?"

Sweets' eyes are closed at this point, but he could attest to the fact that he's awake. He hears the movie perfectly clear, and can picture the opening scene in his mind's eye. He decides that's more than enough.

"Into Darkness was good. Has some good Conrad elements in there, but the story was pulled from an older movie. Wrath of Kahn. Not too original, but still – a really good watch."

Booth says something beside him, but he really doesn't catch it. He thinks he's a bit less awake than he was thirty seconds ago, but he's a bit beyond caring.

In spite of Booth's best efforts, he makes it ten minutes into the film before he checks out.

* * *

When he finally wakes up sweating underneath a mysteriously obtained blanket, he finds no one in the house but himself. He even calls out to check, his voice echoing through the near empty house, and the lack of answer proves him right.

Once he shoves himself up from the sofa and looks around, he discovers two things: the time displayed on a clock by the door, announcing that it's edging closer and closer to five o'clock, and a note sitting plainly on the coffee table in front of him. He glances down to read it.

_Movie was great, just so you know. Had to pop out, just call if you need anything. Don't forget to eat._

_Also – good luck sleeping tonight!_

There's no signature at the bottom, but there doesn't need to be. And with half a smile on his face and the blanket still dangling from his shoulders, he stands from the couch and heads into the kitchen, set on trying to eat whatever he can handle. It ends up being half a bowl of cereal and a pear that's just shy of being ripe, but is decidedly good enough. a

In the end, a few hours later – he ends up not needing luck to fall dead asleep once his head hits the pillow.

Of course – he jerks awake at the very break of Saturday's dawn, just in time to stumble into the bathroom and puke his makeshift dinner back up, but that's another minor detail. His phone is left on the nightstand, out of reach and certainly out of mind, even when he eventually drags his feet back into the room with his arms crossed around himself and collapses on the bed to find that sleep won't be returning to him anytime soon.

He waits until the sun rises a few degrees higher in the sky before he drags himself up and starts on the small mountain of paperwork ahead of him. And try as he might, he can't quite shake the feeling that he's just about to enter the longest weekend of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love reviews and am very needy. ;) Drop a line! Thanks for reading!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm such shit at updating on here. Whatever haha) And we're back! As always, I never proofread well enough, so feel free to yell at me if I made any mistakes. Also, Hacker appears in this chapter - which was strange for me to write, considering I've never seen an episode with him in it before. I'm assuming he's still Booth's boss, and by extension Sweets'? And with no basis for his character, I'm just assuming it's OOC. Any ideas of how I could change it?
> 
> Also: I realized I messed up the timeline with this story. I'd intended it to take place mid-season 8, sometime after Sweets moved in with his roommates, but he moved in with them in a March episode. Current time in this fic is sometime in December, 2012. At this point I'm inclined to just say "fuck it" and move on. Whatever haha. As always, reviews would be great! Enjoy!

* * *

"I don't need a doctor, dammit, I am a doctor!"

\- Leonard McCoy, Star Trek (2009)

* * *

Week Two, Day Three (Day Seventeen)

He never really thought about how much he loves the grind until he was forced away from it for a week, made to trade it out for a bout of stir-craziness and a needle in his arm. But now he's quick to admit it: he loves his job. Every aspect of it, from helping people and saving lives, all the way to the piles of paperwork on his desk bright and early on a Tuesday morning, Thursday afternoon, whenever there's a new case.

Today it was a true Monday morning, with two psych evaluations scheduled and a breaking case laid out for him. And while his first instinct was to plow right through it all – it took a while. He's starting to find out just what Oliver meant when he spoke of lost concentration; and here he'd been half-hoping the man would turn out to be wrong.

Rarely is Lance Sweets so lucky, he supposes.

Regardless, he gets through most of it by noon. Once he finds a reasonable stopping point, tired at his point, but managing, he resigns himself to dragging his feet to the diner for lunch. Call it an appointment.

Daisy Wick arrived before him (and of course she did, because she's always been better at time management, and aside from that, she's focused and alert and awake), and he finds the table easily. He gives her a quick one-armed hug before she can stand from her seat and sits down before she can comment on it.

Sometimes he honestly wishes he wasn't still so close with his ex-girlfriend; but it's not for the reason one might think. Difficult conversations, after all, are things that have to be had. He doesn't have to like them. But this is one.

"Hey," she greets, almost content. He tries not to think about the fact that that's about to change. "I didn't know what you wanted, so I just ordered for me and told them to wait until you got here."

"Oh no, that's fine. They can start. I'm just getting coffee," he answers quickly, half to Daisy and half to the waitress standing nearby who tilts her head to listen and nods with a smile.

Daisy, on the other hand doesn't smile. Instead, she's getting her first good look at him, at his skin and eyes and overall demeanor. And with good reason, of course – she looks concerned.

"Are you okay?" she asks, tilting her chin up, creasing her eyebrows just so. He's seen the expression before – just always directed at other people. Never him. "You look sick."

And even though he's been overthinking this conversation for the last two days, his answer is thoughtless, automatic: "Yeah, I'm fine."

Daisy doesn't buy it. And then he remembers.

"Uh, wait… no," he says, dropping his head and rubbing the back of his neck. He stays like that for a moment before looking back up. "That's not… that's why I called you. That's why I wanted to meet up."

She doesn't quite follow, but her expression stays the same. Daisy Wick herself is a giant question he must finally answer.

His coffee arrives in this moment of silence, and he thanks the waitress far too quickly. And for the longest time after that, he just sits there and stirs his drink, as if all the problems in front of him could somehow disappear like the steam rising up. Instead, they linger like heat.

"That's why I wanted to meet up," he repeats, not meeting her eyes. "I didn't want you to find out from anyone else."

"Find out what?" Instead of a sympathetic question, it is said almost like a statement. One that politely demands its own answer. It comes in time.

"I, uh…" he pauses again, gesturing to his own face and trying desperately to remember the words he practiced. In the end, he scraps them; it's ripping off a Band-Aid. Far easier than the first time. He nods.

"I am sick. I just – I just finished my first round of chemotherapy on Friday," he says, and the only pause he takes now is just to clear his throat. "Because I have cancer. And I wanted you to hear that from me."

A beat, and her face slowly falls into a soft, blank expression.

"Oh."

She stares for a moment more, clears her throat. Her eyes move away from his face and she finds herself staring down at the table. There's a long stretch of nothing before she says anything else.

"What kind?"

"It's called a desmoplastic small round cell tumor. It's, uh… yeah."

He sighs – and Daisy, she's stammered before. She does it all the time. She's rambled, she's gone on forever about something pointless, she's talked herself hoarse. And she's even been lost for words before, believe it or not.

Inside her head, she's at a complete loss. It's a frantic search for some verbal connection, but in the end, she can say nothing more than a quiet, "I'm sorry."

As Sweets just nods, his hands find themselves wrapped around the coffee mug loosely, enjoying the heat of the cup but avoiding a burn. And the two stay just like that, in respective calm and shocked silence, until a waitress floats over and lays Daisy's plate down with a smile that can't quite be returned just yet. Sweets takes a few ginger sips of his drink.

The food goes untouched. Another appetite lost, it seems.

"Well, hey," Sweets finally says, his tone light. It's an attempt. "Good thing we didn't get married, then, huh? Back in 2010. If we did, we'd have – what? A two year old kid, maybe? You'd have a toddler and a husband with cancer who might leave you to raise it alone. A hell of a burden. You dodged a bullet, Miss Daisy."

" _Stop it,"_ Daisy's voice comes suddenly, hard and firm. It sets the psychologist across from her aback, and she quickly looks back up at him, her eyes wide and focused. "You're not a bullet, Lance. The – the situation you're in isn't a bullet either, and you know me well enough by now to know I'd never think of it as one. We didn't – we didn't get married because we didn't fit right. In the end, we didn't work. But _damn it,_ Lance –"

His eyebrows go up just slightly. She takes a breath, gently bites her bottom lip.

"Even if we were married, it wouldn't make a difference. You're not a burden either way, and getting sick – it happens. You never think it's going to happen to you, but all of a sudden it does, and all that's left for you to do is get through it. I'd _be there_ for you if we were married, Lance."

There's a beat, and Sweets' eyes find their way to stare into his coffee.

"And I'm here for you now. No matter what, got it?"

And he smiles.

"Got it," he says quietly, lifting his head, wondering for the thousandth time why he walked away on that night in front their would-be home. Somewhere deep inside he knows – but God, he really misses her sometimes. And right now, sitting right across from her in a crowded diner, he misses her terribly.

Still – he finds it in himself to smile.

"Now eat your lunch before it gets cold. I will not stand for your favorite sandwich going to waste."

She smiles back and slowly gets to it; and he may or may not reach forward and steal a few fries as she does.

* * *

Just as he returns, he is outright intercepted by Hacker; it's just as he's entering the building, and they're certainly closer to the Assistant Director's office than Sweets' own, so he's got no real problem with an impromptu meeting with his boss.

Well, at least not yet. So far, he seems well-meaning enough.

Sweets is led in by his superior and told to take a seat, so he does. Naturally. And Hacker, instead of sitting in his usual seat behind his desk, just stands in front of it, half-leaning, half-sitting against the edge. It's a strangely informal set-up, but he rolls with it.

"So how'd your first round go, Dr. Sweets?" Hacker starts off, friendly.

The psychologist nods. "It went fine, sir."

"Glad to hear it," is the honest reply, and the Assistant Director takes a short pause, as if to delay _something._ His fingers drum against the edge of his desk, and all at once, Sweets catches on. There's a reason he's here. "So, listen… I've been thinking a lot about your circumstance. What effects it will have on your team and on our division as a whole. And last week I got the chance to discuss certain, uh – options, I guess, with a few peers of my own."

Something in Sweets' chest starts to sink, and he starts bracing himself. _We're placing you on medical leave. We're suspending your employment. We're taking you off Agent Booth's team._

Strangely enough – none of those come.

Hacker continues, "We've been put in similar situations before. And what's typical is that FBI employees would take a paid medical leave in order to make treatment easier and less obstructive to standard procedure. But I'll be honest: you're one of our best, Dr. Sweets. No one wants to see you leave just yet, and while that option is always open to you – I'd guess that you don't want to see yourself leave either."

Those words take a few long moments to sink into his head, and as soon as they do, Sweets' lungs want to heave a heavy sigh of relief at the sound. He nods, sincere, but keeps himself quiet; of course, there's always more.

"That said, provided you'll be staying with us, there are a few… measures I was advised to take. Obviously, you already know situations like yours can be taxing. Emotionally as well as physically. We just want to make sure that whatever toll it may take on you, it will not compromise the objectivity of your work."

He pauses, and Sweets just looks at him for a moment, confused. "Of course. And how… would we ensure that?"

A sigh.

"Well… you're not going to like it."

* * *

"A psychologist!" There is no knock to signal Sweets' entrance – just the incredulous half-shout echoing through Booth's office in the same second.

The senior agent just looks up from the evidence documentations on his desk, taking a second to shift his attention.

"What?"

And Sweets takes a breath. "They're making me see a psychologist."

Booth just blinks at him. "And?"

"I _am_ a psychologist!" he says, running a hand through his hair, huffing a breath. "I'm perfectly capable of monitoring myself, and there hasn't been any reason to doubt my self-judgement. It's almost insulting. It's like in the first Star Trek reboot film, when McCoy had to keep saying he didn't need a doctor because he _was_ one."

There's a light pause, and Booth seems to consider this. But then he shrugs.

"Well hey, even doctors need second opinions sometimes, right? I don't really see how it could hurt to have someone to talk to."

"I already have people I can talk to."

It's a gentle admission; but Booth can't help but raise the question: "Yeah. But will you?"

And Sweets is not quite sure what to say to that.

"I don't know, Sweets," Booth says, standing up from his desk with a folder held tight in one hand. "I don't think it's a huge deal. Might even be good for you. But in the meantime, I've got a meeting with the victim's husband in a few minutes. You up for it?"

And the psychologist stands there for a long moment, leaning against the doorjamb in quiet consideration.

A sigh. Sweets nods.

"Yeah. I gotta stay behind the glass and observe, though. Flu season and all."

"Sounds good to me."

And without another word – they follow each other out the door go right back to that same, familiar grind.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a filler chapter, but also necessary. More internality than I'd originally intended... I also didn't really edit (shocker, shocker), but I'm impatient, so I'm posting! ;) Late morning classes work in my favor. Enjoy, and I hope I'll have more for ya soon!

Day Thirty (Week 4, Day 2)

He's feeling at least halfway normal again by the time he finds himself driving back up to Maryland. He can tell, since he _is_ driving. Able to hold down most of his small meals, running on a close-enough temperature to normal, and complacently attentive after two weeks, he even finds himself not minding the length of the trip. It's almost all highway; practically relaxing.

Still, once he makes it to the cancer center, he has to keep reminding himself not to be nervous as he walks in. He's not here for chemo. Nothing to worry about, really.

He talks to the receptionist for a few minutes, sits down in the waiting area, and waits. It's only after a technician comes out to bring him in when he realizes he's been biting his nails in the lull; he wonders when that old habit came back.

He's brought not to Dr. Roden this time, but to a different doctor, a young man who introduces himself with a long name Sweets can't pronounce and an air of confidence that is somehow assuring. The technician dismisses herself as the two walk into an exam room.

"Alright, Lance," the new man is saying. "We're going to perform a few of the tests that were done prior to your first round, okay? Just those basics, and then we'll take a sonogram to see if there's been any response yet. Dr. Roden is going to review everything before you come back next week. Ready?"

As he'll ever be, he supposes. He says as much, and soon enough, he's changed into scrubs and sitting patiently on an exam table as the doctor shines a light in his eyes, checks reflexes, measures height and weight and everything else there is to measure. And once that's through, he finds himself on his back on an exam table, looking up at the ceiling and trying to gauge the young doctor's out-of-sight actions by ear.

(He doesn't do quite well in that respect, since shuffling around the room and gathering equipment both have vague sounds that lack the finer details, but it doesn't make a difference.)

After a few moments' pause, in which the doctor softly narrates his actions, Sweets feels his scrubs being lifted up, a pair of gloved hands carefully palpating the middle of his abdomen. He lets his head fall to the side, so he's looking away as the doctor's fingers quickly find what's hiding underneath his skin, and the soft grunt that comes when that dull ache becomes far more apparent is muffled.

Still, the doctor takes note, hesitating.

"I'm sorry, did that hurt?"

And the psychologist swallows, not looking up at the doctor but offering a small nod.

"Yeah, but it's fine. Do what you need to do."

At that, the doctor easily obeys and moves away for the moment. Once he returns and touches his belly again, his fingers are cold; there's the gel on the doctor's hands, now on Sweets' stomach, and before he knows it, there's a probe bring softly pressed against him. He turns his head, and after a few short moments – there it is.

There's the monitor against the wall to his right, receiving the image and projecting it out for him to see. That big white splotch – that's it. That's his tumor. That's his cancer.

He can't quite look away from it as the doctor scans. He remembers that big, stupid white splotch being held up for him to see on that first night, and he remembers being absolutely terrified.

He wonders for a moment when he stopped being so terrified, before realizing that he never really stopped at all. Because here it is again, right in front of him: visual, undeniable proof that he's sick, as if a miserable round of chemo wasn't enough. As if Thanksgiving dinner and all the other awkward break-the-news conversations were nothing more than hollow dreams. Some hazy nightmare he could eventually wake up from and sigh at; and he would thank whatever God was listening that that wasn't his reality.

But it is his reality. His chest tightens and aches to remember that fact, but it's the truth.

That white splotch on the monitor could kill him one day. (And hell, with a fifteen percent survival rate – it probably will.)

He lies perfectly still on the observation table, watching the monitor. Watching the tumor under his skin live, feeling the probe hover against it. In fact, that's all he feels.

He doesn't notice the cool tears running sideways from his eyes until the young doctor pauses and quickly lifts the probe up.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "Did that hurt?"

The image on the screen disappears as soon as the probe comes up, but he doesn't look away.

"No," Sweets says. He swallows. "No. Keep going."

* * *

Look, while he's still largely indignant about becoming a psychological patient as well as a physical one, he is at least practical enough to understand why. He gets it, to a degree. The work comes first, and if he ends up compromising the work in any small way, it could cost them a killer. It could even get people killed. Well – worst case scenario, he's sure. But still, he sees the reason.

Even so, he figures as he gently knocks on the door, he doesn't need to like it.

(He hasn't liked a lot of things since that night in November, and this is just another one to take in stride, really.)

It takes a moment, but the door opens eventually to reveal a woman looking up at him through glasses perched on her nose. Her hair, a mix of blonde and slight silver, is pulled back behind her as she hurriedly welcomes him in.

"Good morning, Dr. Sweets," she says, closing the door behind him. "Please have a seat."

"Sure, sure," he says, and he does. He finds a chair in front of her desk, nearly the spitting image of the ones in his own office, and sits down and waits until she comes over. Once she does, he stands to shake her hand before they sit back down.

"Well, it's nice to finally meet you," she starts, opening a file and organizing it on her lap. "I must say, I and a few colleagues have been following your work for a while. Impressive momentum, especially for such a young psychologist."

Young, young, young, young, young. For God's sake, he's _twenty-seven_. He's growing rather tired of that word; still, he manages to find the patience to thank her. And he means it.

"Alright, well I'm Dr. Greene – you can call me Marina if you'd like, whichever is more comfortable for you. Why don't we start simple? How are you today?"

The smile on his face is somehow both genuine and forced as he answers, "I'm fine, thanks."

And she takes a moment to nod and smile and says, "I'm glad to hear it. Now, is there anything you'd like to talk about specifically? Anything pertinent on your mind?"

What's most pertinent on his mind, most often, can generally be described in a word. Almost. His thoughts tend to shout _Ihavearareanddifficulttocuretypeofcancerandprobablywon'tlivepastthirty_ in the quieter and idler moments of every day, but that's not something he's inclined to share.

It's ironic, he finds. A psychologist who hates talking about himself, as much as he values his field and knows its usefulness. Or, perhaps, it's not that ironic at all; a medical doctor would never quite enjoy their field from the patient's perspective, would they?

"Nothing really," he says, and even though he's a terrible liar, she seems to let it slide. He considers expanding on it, adding more words so as not to seem so cold, but he can't quite find any. So he nods and adds in a reaffirming smile instead.

"Alright," she replies calmly. "How about physically, if I may ask? How's your treatment going?"

Eh. "It's fine," he answers. But, undeterred, she keeps going.

"Now, what type of cancer was it again?" And God, she says it so simply. No reservations about it, because – and Sweets knows this – saying it outright steals its power away. But then – it's not her cancer, is it?

"Uh, it's called a desmoplastic small round cell tumor," he answers another question and diverts his eyes to the floor.

"Ah. And that's typically a very… formidable illness, correct? How do you feel when you think about that?"

Of course.

"Like anyone would, I guess."

"And do you think you could put that into words?"

He probably could, if he tried hard enough. However. "Uh… I don't think so."

"Maybe –"

"Actually," he interrupts, inwardly cringing at his own borderline rudeness but pushing forward nevertheless, "Sorry, I don't mean to change the topic…" (He most certainly does.) "But I was wondering if you could maybe give my profile on the current case a quick once over; thought maybe we could get that out of the way first…"

And hell, she nods her head and says _sure,_ and they do. And by the end of his hour block, Lance Sweets could sigh in relief, because they end up talking about the case – and how the killer was most likely a woman, and how the crime scene reflected some sort of intimate relationship, and which of the suspects was the probable killer – for the remainder of the time.

That feeling of freedom, however, is rather fleeting. Because as he gets up and shakes Greene's hand, she smiles and says, "I'll see you next week, Dr. Sweets. One more question, though, before you go, if you don't mind…"

A beat.

"As a professional… say you had a patient come to you who seemed reluctant, and was inclined to consistently shift focus off of himself. What do you think your course of action would be?"

Of course. Sweets ends up smiling though, as he answers.

"I would… keep at it. But gently. Over time."

Safe for now, he shakes her hand again, says goodbye, and walks out, set on returning to his own office, to his own job, to his own vices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is important to note that I have absolutely no idea how therapy works, I'm terribly sorry. If anyone has any suggestions on how to improve this last half of the chapter, please let me know, and as always - if there's anything at all problematic, please call me out on it! Thanks!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY I AM GARBAGE AND FORGET TO UPDATE MY STORIES HERE AAH. I'm three chapters behind on ao3, uploading them all now haha. If it ever seems like I forgot again, feel free to check ff.net for updates, because as of right now I update there first. (Although ao3 is obviously superior....... idk why I don't update here more hahaha) My username there is Joanne Barcia, just like here, but without the underscore. Thanks for reading!
> 
> My notes from when I originally published the chapter:
> 
> **Hey! I'm alive haha. Having open stories, even though I'm a lazy updater, stresses me out. So I did some outlining. Again, I honestly do promise that any open stories I have (unless I specifically say otherwise) will all be finished eventually. Especially this one. I started this after my junior year of high school, and I've put far too much work into it to quit now hahaha!**
> 
> **Speaking of finishing this - I've had the ending to this story set in my head for a long time. But last week I just thought of a completely different way to end the story, and I'm excited for it. That's a way off, though. For now, hope you enjoy this chapter! PLEASE let me know what you think! :) Much love, enjoy!**

Week Five, Day Four (Day Thirty-Nine)

"I'm just saying," he continues, gesturing freely with his free hand, "that _psychologically,_ Helen Geller would not be capable of premeditated murder. She was a toxic, obviously abusive girlfriend, and Caroline should nail her for that abuse as soon as we've got the evidence together, of course – but she's not the killer."

And Booth, however unconvinced as he seems, concedes. To a point, at least, as he answers with a shake of the head and a challenging, "Fine. Who do you think the killer is, then, if not the abusive girlfriend who was responsible for most of his past injuries?"

"Well, if I knew that, you'd probably be making an arrest right now instead of sitting here," Sweets poses. "It's still gotta be someone close to him; just not Geller. Geller wanted to intimidate and control, sure, but –"

He is cut off not by Booth, as he fully expected, but by a quick _knock-knock-knock_ against the metal doorframe. The two turn their heads in unison to find Dr. Roden leaning into the room.

"Good morning, Dr. Sweets," she greets, walking in. "I must apologize, I meant to meet with you before your line got started, but I got caught up. How're you feeling this week?"

He lifts his left arm up and eyeballs the line. The bruises from the month before are just beginning to fade, but he can just barely see a new one beginning to form. "I'm doin' alright. Thanks."

And he finds he's becoming more and more honest as time goes by. Whether that's due to a change in heart or a change in his tolerance, though, is completely in the air.

Roden nods at that and goes about her normal motions – checks the bag, makes some notes. "I'm glad to hear that. Now, if it's alright, I was hoping to go over a few things; I hate to briefly kick you out, Agent Booth, but confidentiality is a policy I follow. You can feel free to gossip later."

"No problem," the agent says, getting up and offering Sweets a light clap on the shoulder as he passes by. "I'm just gonna grab some coffee. You want anything?"

Sweets declines, and a moment later, he and Dr. Roden are alone. As the oncologist takes a seat in the vacant chair, he finds that, whether Roden is about to say something great, terrible, in between, or completely meaningless, he's not particularly scared of what it is. But whether _that's_ due to a change in his mindset or just the fact that he's been far too scared over the past month to get worked up over much else – well, who can tell?

"Alright, Lance, so…" Roden begins, opening the folder she'd entered with. Inside are pages upon pages of test results, image scans, treatment plans. She holds up one sheet of laminate in particular. "You've seen this scan before. That was the one taken by your primary last month."

And so it is. The same big, white splotch that changed his life stares back at him once again and all he does is nod at it. Roden reaches back and pulls out another image, holds them side by side.

"And this… is the scan from last week."

He sees them both; and because psychology is not oncology by any stretch, he offers a small, "Okay," and waits for her to elaborate.

And of course, she does. She always does.

"The second one is still being analyzed. Tumor size is difficult to measure, so whatever comes up will be an estimate – but we're hoping we'll find something definitive enough to let us know if it's working. We should have a rough diameter by the end of this round."

He nods at this. "Got it. Thank you."

There is a pause as she gently scribbles in the margins of another page. More notes. It's always more notes, always about _something_.

"Alright, _now,"_ she continues, back to the immediate point. "Now that your friend is out of the room, care to tell me how you're really doing? We switched your antiemetic this round, and we'll see if that's a better fit, but is there anything else you want to tell me?"

After a short hesitation, he offers her half a smile and says, "Thanks, but no. I'm really doing alright. It was rough about two weeks ago, but I'm okay. Ready to do it all again this month."

She closes her folder and smiles. "Well, hopefully not _all_ again, okay? We're trying to make it a little easier this time. And it really helps when people are honest with me; I get a lot of men who try to brush all the important things off, and whether that's due to some sort of hyper-masculinity or embarrassment – we can't have it."

"Trust me," he says with a quiet chuckle. "There is absolutely nothing hyper-masculine about me. No worries."

"Good. Alright, I'm back to my rounds – if you need anything, you know what to do."

He nods to her and within a few lingering seconds, she disappears from the room. He is not left alone for very long, however, because Booth quickly returns, a cup of coffee in each hand as he extends one to Sweets.

"I know you said you didn't want anything," he says, "but I got you coffee anyway. Milk and half a sugar."

He smiles – and accepts.

"Thanks."

And they sit.

* * *

Week Five, Day Six (Day Forty-One)

What he found on his first night back in the Baltimore cancer center is that whatever antiemetic Roden switched him to, it didn't work; so his nights were rough. By the time the third day of his round comes along, he's opted to quit eating for the time being. It's a problem that will have to be solved, but only he and the staff have to know about it. For now.

His semi-surprise visitors, on the other hand, do not.

Angela and Hodgins, free for a probable lunch break, come by at about half past one when his headache is just starting to level off – and earnestly, he's glad for the company. He only has so much work to catch up on, and the internet can only keep him from going stir-crazy for so long. He halfway mentions as much about twenty minutes into their visit.

"Also got a book here, I see," Hodgins notices, gesturing to a thick novel sitting on the bed. "Not that it's a substitute for people. What is it?"

Sweets reaches for it and turns it over so the cover is exposed, and once they see it, they both smile.

"Yes! See, told you you'd like Game of Thrones," Angela says, reaching for it and flipping through its pages before setting it down on the bed again.

"I'm not that far into it," Sweets admits. "I finished the first chapter yesterday, but I might just watch the show."

Hodgins sounds genuinely disappointed at that. "Aw, seriously? The books are so different though."

"Yeah, I know, but they're so long," is the justification. "I don't know if I have the time."

They pause at that. Because on one hand, sitting here, he's got all the time on the world. On the other hand – he doesn't.

"I guess so," Angela says finally. "It took me like six months to finish the first one. The show's still good though. You're gonna love it."

He smiles at that. They change the subject soon after.

* * *

Week Six, Day One (Day Forty-Two)

"Do you want to hear a story?" he asks, looking at her with just _slightly_ dilated eyes and a distant expression, and for a moment she pauses, considering this. The question certainly came from nowhere – although, to be fair, she supposes it's rather difficult to pull something relevant from previous silence.

But if she's honest, she wishes she could. The silence is frustrating, especially when she knows it's completely misplaced. Because look – Cam Saroyan is not the closest person in the world to him. She doesn't have to ask because she knows this; even after years of close-ish friendship, she'd never make the claim.

Regardless, Lance Sweets is just as much family to her as anyone else. That's why she came, after all, and that's why she stayed. Even when the nurses on the floor explicitly told her that he'd been fevered and out of it the entire day, she is determined to stay right where she is.

Still – she does wish she had more to say. But for now, she decides that whatever words Sweets has will do just fine. She nods.

"Yeah, sure."

He pauses for a moment – and after a deep breath, he gets right to telling.

"So, like… I was adopted, right? And my parents – they were pretty old," he starts, zipping up his sweatshirt and tucking his feet under the bedsheets. "So when I was… when I was like twenty-one, my mom died. She was sick for a while, so it wasn't… we weren't surprised. But we still missed her, you know?"

He doesn't look at her as he says this, and even as she offers a quiet, "I'm sorry," he doesn't much notice it. In this moment, she figures – he's far too deep in his own story.

"And my dad, he was like, really religious. Went to church every single Sunday, ten A.M. on the dot. And he starts praying. Well, he was always praying, but then – he started asking Mom for signs. I don't know. Signs she was okay, I guess, watching over him. And he told me, he said the first thing he asked for was a dove. Which was kind of silly, I thought. Super clichéd. But he still asked her for it. And you know, this was…"

He pauses for a moment.

"This was like… early two-thousands. 2004 or five, maybe, when computers were getting more popular. He gets an email, one of those religious chain emails that older people send around. And he said at the very bottom was a little animation of a dove, with the olive branch in its beak."

"Wow," Cam says, and she can feel her eyebrows go up at that.

"Don't say _wow_ yet, Dr. Saroyan," Sweets turns his head and offers her a sloppy smile. "That's not all. 's not anything, really, or at least I didn't think so. I was pretty Scully-ish, then, being a skeptic. Still am, sorta… but anyway, my dad's all thrilled because he thinks it's Mom, so he asks her for a cardinal. He loved birds, and there are a ton of 'em around Hempstead – but cardinals are hard to find, see? But fast forward, like, maybe a week. I'm talking to him at the kitchen table, and all of a sudden he looks out the window."

"Let me guess," she smiles. "A cardinal?"

He beams at her. _"Two._ Two bright red cardinals, just sitting together on a branch."

"Can I say _wow_ now?" she asks, and something inside her means it.

"You can if you want," he says. "But there's one last thing…. My dad was also – he was a sucker for stars, and the moon and all that. I'd be driving at night and all of a sudden he'd yell for me to look at the moon, and sometimes it was cool-looking and all – but I always said it was the same moon I saw every night. It wasn't going anywhere. Anyway, he liked to – liked to sit outside at night sometimes and look at the sky. And not really serious, you know, he just goes, 'Hey, Esther, how about a shooting star?' As a joke! But then a couple seconds later…"

He makes a wide gesture with his free hand.

"Star comes shooting across the sky. And he thinks that's incredible. So he said it again, 'How about another?' Not expecting much, but still asking, because why not? But then another one _does_ shoot across again, and he's just… amazed. So then he just… says thank you. And he says goodnight, because he doesn't want to push it."

"But…?"

"But just as he says thank you," he says, shifting his gaze to stare at the cancer center's ceiling, a makeshift sky. "A third one – brighter than the other two. And that was it. I never really knew what to make of any of that... but it makes a good story."

He goes silent after that, and for a long moment, Cam finds herself speechless. But then she isn't.

"That's incredible," she offers, and Sweets' grin is stretching ear to ear at the memory. And she wonders how he pulled that story from the open silence.

"Was there… was there a point to that story, Sweets?" she asks after a moment, and Sweets turns his head to look at her once again. The wide grin slowly fades from his face, and he is suddenly very, harshly sober.

"No," he answers. "No, there… not every story has to have a point."

* * *

Week Six, Day Two (Day Forty-Three)

By the time the last day of the round comes, he's doing alright. For the moment. It's still morning, after all, and he knows by now that they can be deceiving, but for now – he's held food down for a day or so, his head doesn't hurt terribly. He maintains that he's fine.

Booth doesn't seem to believe him on that front, however.

As the nurse goes about removing his line, the agent stands by and drafts an argument in his head; and once she finally finishes and leaves the room, telling him he's free to leave whenever he's ready, he goes off.

"Look, Sweets, I know you think going back to your apartment is no big deal, but –"

"I'm _fine,_ Booth, really –"

"Really?" the agent echoes. "Because both Cam and the nurses said you were pretty out of it yesterday, you had a fever of 105."

At that, Sweets pauses, considers this. And he sighs. "I don't remember yesterday."

"Yeah," Booth replies, and while there's certainly an _I told you so_ in the back of his head, he saves it for another day. "Look, Sweets, I'm not saying you have to move back in with us. I'm not saying that you can't take care of yourself; I'm just saying it might be better to have people around. Just in case, alright?"

Sweets' gaze shifts to the floor. He offers no immediate answer.

So Booth continues. "Plus, it's Christmastime. No one wants to be alone on Christmas. Right? How about it?"

He takes a few moments to silently think as he pulls his jacket on over his sweatshirt. In the end, his answer comes as a silent, wordless nod and nothing more, and Booth decidedly counts this as a small victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fun fact: the story that Sweets told Cam is a true story. Slightly bent for this fic, but still. My grandma passed in 2013, and my grandpa, religious fanatic as he is, asked her for the same signs. The slight difference is that the last part, with the stars, was all my mom. She's crazy about those stars.**
> 
> **Alrighty, so thanks for reading! Would love it if you could drop a quick review, because I'm always stressed that no one reads this story anymore haha. Would love to know there's still someone interested. Love ya, until next time! :)**


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes from when I originally published this chapter:  
>  **Wowee! I've been trying to finish this chapter, along with a sixteen page paper, all week. I accomplished both. It's 3:15 AM and I am exhausted haha - so I'm posting and going right to bed. Hope you like the chapter! Reviews would be very very lovely!**
> 
> **Oh, and unrelated - if you haven't heard Pentatonix's newest Christmas album, you should listen to it asap :) just a suggestion :)**

* * *

"You'll be fine. 50/50! If you were a casino game you'd have the best odds!"  
― Kyle Hiron, _50/50 (2011)_

* * *

Week Six, Day Five (Day Forty-Seven)

"Hey, shouldn't you be asleep?" the half-whispering voice of Seeley Booth echoes through the living room, and he turns his head to see; the man is standing by the foot of the stairs with a tube of wrapping paper in his right hand, a Fisher-Price toy dangling from his left, and a perplexed smile on his face. "Santa's only gonna come once everyone's gone to bed."

Sweets offers a halfhearted chuckle at that as he glances from Booth to the clock on the wall – shining _12:54_ down at them like an urgent reminder of the hour – and down to the floor for just a moment. As Booth comes to join him in the living room, the psychologist makes the smallest gesture with his head towards the base of the tree.

"Well, I was giving the old guy a hand," he says, and true to his word, there is a small collection of wrapped objects placed gently, haphazardly beneath the lowest pine branches. "By the way… these are yours."

He reaches behind his back and picks a pair of scissors and a tape dispenser up from the window sill.

"Damn it, I was looking for those," Booth says without heat, and he takes them from Sweets' hand once he puts the other things down on a nearby chair. And then he pauses. "I didn't know you were still up."

Sweets shrugs. "Wasn't planning on it. But here I am, I guess."

"Yeah. Here you are," the agent remarks, and he goes silent again for a moment, considering the scene he walked in on just moments before. Just Sweets, leaning against the arm of the couch, staring at the darkened tree.

"Hang on a sec," Booth continues, dropping the things in his hands onto the other chair with everything else and walking around to a power strip that's lying on the floor. There is a muted click, and a second later, the tree is lit – and the colored lights are shining around the room, illuminating the two of them.

"Now I can see you," he finally says, and it's the truth. He sees Sweets, looking tired, as has become usual – but also calm. Lost in whatever thoughts he's got stuck in his head. "Something on your mind?"

Having gone back to staring at the tree, Sweets doesn't answer at first. The lights – green and red and gold and blue and purples and white – all seem to wink in his eyes before he eventually does. He shrugs.

"I'm just thinking."

"Thinking's good," Booth says. "About?"

A pause. "Christmas."

And Booth nods his head to that. "Makes sense. Anything specific about it?"

Sweets says nothing to that; at least not at first. There is a long stretch of silence between them, lasting until the younger man finally lets out a pent up breath, closes his eyes, nods.

"I'm thinking that… uh," he takes another deep breath and lets it out. "I don't know how many Christmases I have left. I'm thinking about how this could be my last one."

To that, Booth's reply is quick, his tone serious. It is a knee-jerk response brimming with optimism and obstinate, exhausting confidence.

"Come on, don't talk like that. You're gonna be fine, Sweets, and –"

"Look, look," Sweets interrupts, shaking his head just so and holding a hand up. "I'm sorry. I appreciate the positivity and everything. Really. But I gotta be honest, I'm tired of hearing that. Just… 'You're gonna be fine, you're gonna be fine,' over and over and over and over. Because am I?"

He runs a hand through his hair, bites his bottom lip, and continues with a sober voice and a curt nod.

"I'm not an idiot. And sometimes it's a little insulting, when people think I don't understand statistics. I mean – you could put a hundred people in a room, all with the same disease, and five years later, only fifteen are gonna walk out. I'm twenty-seven. And all these numbers are telling me that I might not make it to thirty, and then even if I do – I might not live long after that. That's the fact of it, Booth. Optimism's not gonna change it. So when you say that…" he sighs. He shrugs. "I gotta call you on it."

For a long time after that, the room is silent. Sweets turns his head away to stare at the window, where the blurred image of an illuminated tree is reflected back to him, and Booth – staring at the carpet beneath his feet – has all the time in the world to think of how to answer.

Or perhaps that's not quite true.

After the stretch of anxious quiet that settled between them, Booth finally gathers the nerve to say – something. Anything.

"Okay," he says. "Fine. I hear ya, say – I don't know, say this is your last Christmas. Not saying it's true. But pretend."

Sweets turns his head back to look at Booth as he continues.

"Pretend it's your last Christmas. How are you going to spend it? If it were me – I think I'd rather spend it making memories and trying to be happy for a change, instead of worrying the whole time about what might happen. I wouldn't waste time thinking about how I don't want to be in that room. But hey – that's just me."

Booth claps a hand on Sweets' shoulder, gives him a slight, gentle shake. And as soon as he pulls his hand away, he starts gathering the things he'd put on the chair before he looks back at Sweets one last time.

"And look," he says. "What you said about those stats? Take it from the gambler. Yeah, there might be safer games out there. Ones with better odds.

A pause.

"But I'd still take my chances on you."

* * *

Week Six, Day Six (Day Forty-Eight)

He's already half-awake by the time a pillow comes to swiftly but gently smack against his face, and in the moments after, he finds himself suddenly full-awake, blinking wildly as he sits up on the living room couch.

Even better than an alarm clock, he supposes.

"I'm up, I'm up," he says, rubbing a hand over his eyes – and once he pulls it away, he finds not Booth standing next to him with a throw pillow in hand, but Jack Hodgins. And all at once, he's in his junior year of college, late for his nine a.m. and mentally preparing himself to run to the car and speed to class. Only this time, he's late for Christmas, and he can't decide which is worse. He can feel the momentary terror settle on his face as he asks, "Wait, what time is it?"

The entomologist nearly laughs at the expression, and he's not nearly as worried as Sweets is when he answers, "Don't worry, you're not late. We're just early. It's ten to eleven."

A sigh.

"You scared the crap out of me," Sweets says, smiling with relief as he stands up. "What time did you guys want to head to Cam's again? One?"

"We were probably gonna head out by twelve. Takes about an hour to get there, remember? That's why we're carpooling."

He has to think about it for a long moment, but he remembers the conversation. Maybe. Kind of, sort of.

"Right, right," he offers, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands yet again. "Yeah, then I should probably shower. Where is everyone?"

"They're upstairs with the kids. Michael's trying to show Christine how to draw a Christmas tree. Gotta say, the kid's picking it up quick – an eighteen month genius," Hodgins adds with a smile as he places the pillow back on the end of the couch.

"Hey, we all saw that coming," Sweets says. "Alright, I'm gonna go get ready. Be back in a few."

And with a nod, he heads upstairs.

* * *

It is just past noon by the time a light knock lands on the bathroom door; and carefully, quietly, Angela calls inside.

"Sweets?" she says, gently pressing her ear to the wood of the door. There is no sign of running water like she'd expected, but rather a slight brush of movement that she can just barely make out. "You okay?"

There is, of course, a pause. And then there's a muffled echo of a clearing throat and a final, rushed answer.

"Yeah – yeah, I'm okay," the words come through, but she is not quite sure she believes them. A glance at a clock would be reason enough for that.

So she pushes her boundary, just a little bit, as she asks, "Can I come in?"

When the affirmative, albeit hesitant, answer eventually comes, she turns the knob and pokes her head into Booth and Brennan's bathroom to find Sweets, dressed in his typical dress pants and button down shirt. She finds him leaning against the sink with his elbows resting on the edge of the counter and his head bowed, almost in disappointment.

"Hey," she greets him for the first time face-to-face and asks her question again. "You okay? You've been in here for a while."

Sweets doesn't meet her eyes as he apologizes. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, I was just, uh… I'm good."

She somehow remains unconvinced, and as she takes a few steps closer to stand by the psychologist's side, she notices two things; the first is the small patch of brown hair held carefully in Sweets' right hand. The second is the bare spot on his head where it came from. And suddenly she gets it.

Sweets doesn't miss the moment when her eyebrows twitch up, just slightly as she realizes. He's still attentive as ever.

"Yeah, that was just – that was stupid of me," he stammers, finally standing up straight. Slowly, he drops his small handful of hair into the waste bin. "I just – uh… I keep…"

Trailing off for a moment, he waves a hand over the top of his head, pantomiming running his fingers through his hair. It's a real, habitual action that Angela hadn't noticed before – but now, as she considers it, she notices. He does it all the time.

"I keep doing – yeah. My bad, I – I'm sorry to keep you waiting."

If she didn't know better, she would call the look on his face one of sheer embarrassment. But she does know better – and she can see the unwarranted shame in his eyes as clear as day.

He starts to gather himself just then, but before he rightly can, she stops him.

"Hang on," she says, catching him by the wrist. He freezes. "Let me see."

And slowly, he tilts his head down so she can see the bald patch, quarter-sized and just barely noticeable by the side of his head. She considers it for just a moment and offers a calm smile.

"You should've come gotten me earlier. I can fix that. Here, come here…" she gently orders and leads him until he's standing in the shower. "Just lean over."

He does.

"Alright, now this might seem counterproductive, but I want you to keep running your fingers through your hair. Not hard, just how you normally do."

He certainly seems uncertain, but he does as she says. And Angela watches as a few more bits of hair come falling out, revealing the skin underneath. Finally, once he's upright again, Angela pulls a pair of scissors from one of the bathroom drawers.

"Alright, now just take your button-down off and bend down so I can reach your head."

With a half-hearted smile, he wholeheartedly complies. And after roughly ten minutes of Sweets crouching down in the tub with Angela snipping away, brushing at his hair every few moments, the artist finally takes a step back and eyes her handiwork.

"There. I was able to cover up the bald patches, and I cut the rest of your hair a little shorter. I'm thinking it won't come out as easily then."

Sweets nods at her, but is largely silent until he slips his shirt back on and examines it in the mirror himself. He smiles.

Angela did an excellent job – not that he had any doubt that she would. His hair is neatly cropped short, more or less the length it had been after his last haircut. He can't quite pin the date down, but it was before. Regardless, standing here in this single moment – he likes it.

He just wishes he could keep it.

"Thanks," is all he can bring himself to say, but as he turns his head to look down at Angela, he finds it's all he needs to say.

"Don't mention it," Angela says. "Now come on – have you heard Christine try to say 'Merry Christmas' yet? Jack's been trying to teach her all morning. It's adorable. Can't wait 'til Cam sees it."

And with that, she pulls him away to join the others for whatever Christmas has in store.

* * *

Week Seven, Day One (Day Forty-Nine) | December 26, 2012, 12:31 a.m.

Christmas dinner comes and goes, and nothing ever lasts.

And of course it doesn't, he figures. That's not how _time_ works. Time is a constant, rushing concept; that's how it always has been. That's how it always will be.

Sweets sits on the arm of the living room sofa, considering this, while all around him are reflections of colored lights – glittering red, blue, green, gold, purple, orange, white.

This moment can't last. Not even the memory of it can; the sounds of the night outside the window, the smell of the pine tree filling the room, the ever-present _tick, tick, tick_ of the clock on the wall – in this moment, they are experiences unique to him. They are sensations tucked neatly away in his head, and when he dies, the memories will die with him. There's no way around it.

And it is moments like these that make him wonder why he ever opened a psychology textbook in the first place.

But before he can find the answer, the moment slips away.

"Hey, Sweets," a voice echoes from the foot of the stairs, calm and nearly musical. His moment in solitude has slipped away, but he finds that this new one, this moment of company, is not unwelcome.

He looks over to Brennan as she enters the room and offers her a smile and a quiet, "Hey."

"I came down to turn the tree off," she explains, coming to sit down next to him. "I didn't know you were still up."

"Yeah. I'll probably go to bed soon," he replies, and after a short pause, he adds, "Thank you again, you know. For letting me stay here. That was real nice of you guys."

And Brennan, she lets out a breath and is quick to reassure. "You're family, Sweets. And it's Christmas. Here's where you should be. In fact… I think it should be us thanking you for staying here and celebrating with us."

At that, he hangs his head with a smile on his face; there are no words. For a long while after he brings his head up, they sit in comfortable silence until Brennan finds more to say. She gives him a small smile as she adds, "I like your haircut. It looks nice."

"Oh – thanks. Yeah, Angela did a really good job," Sweets replies. And then he pauses.

"You know… uh…" he starts. He pauses again, and Brennan waits patiently until he finally continues. "It's kind of dumb. I knew… I kind of knew I was supposed to be losing my hair around now. That's just what happens. But it's one of those things…"

He clears his throat, and as he goes on, Brennan can see all the colored lights reflected in his eyes.

"It's one of those things that… you know it's supposed to happen, because it happens with most people. But still, you kind of hope… that it won't happen to you. You kinda hope you'll be the exception."

And he sighs.

"I guess I'm not an exception."

She can't find the words to say anything to that. So, in the empty space, he goes on.

"I'm guessing the rest'll fall out, too, soon. Then it'll be like – everyone who sees me is gonna know. I'll look sick."

"Well, you are sick," Brennan finally says. But it doesn't sound quite right, so she explains. "And illness… is not some personal failure. I don't quite see the shame in looking sick, at least until you're healthy again."

He decides not to point out to her the misplaced certainty behind her reasoning. He decides that's fore another night.

"But if it makes you feel any better," she adds, getting up from her seat and turning to glance his way. "I don't care what you look like. Hair or no hair, you're still Lance Sweets."

He turns this over in his head as she walks around the tree to the outlet on the opposite wall. From his spot on the arm of the sofa, he blinks – and when he opens his eyes, the Christmas lights are out. In the semi-dark, Brennan walks back in his direction. And before he realizes it, she's got him wrapped in a gentle hug.

And then the moment slips away.

"Good night, Sweets," she says, and without another word she disappears up the stairs, leaving him alone once again. But that's alright.

Just a few minutes pass before he follows her lead and heads to the guestroom, and he is asleep before he can even give a single thought to next year's holiday season.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had no relevant notes when I published this last week, just answered a question someone had. In case anyone's wondering, where this story is placed (weirdly at the end of 2012, now beginning of 2013), Christine is meant to be around 18 months old. She will appear more in later parts.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

* * *

Week Eight, Day Two (Day Fifty-Eight)

"Today I want to talk about dreams," Dr. Greene begins, just minutes into their hour block, and for once, her patient is not itching to change the subject.

They've found their niche, they suppose. It's a rather simple one. Doctor Marina Greene, for all her years at the FBI, has seen more than her fair share of patients, each with different issues, different problems, different minds; sometimes, in order to treat them effectively, she needs to take a little bullshit sometimes. This is where she differs from Dr. Roden – but Sweets is perfectly glad for that difference.

Greene doesn't fixate on the physical, like every other person in his life at the moment seems to do. Hell, she hardly even fixates on the psychological: she addresses what needs to be addressed and moves right on. And he appreciates the movement.

And also unlike everyone else – she never seems to forget that he is a professional psychologist. Or at the very least, she treats him like one.

Which is why he feels perfectly comfortable asking, "Dreams? As in…?"

"Not ambitions. Sleep dreams," she clarifies.

And he pauses.

"Like – analysis. Dream analysis," he turns it over. "How Freudian. Do you subscribe to his theories?"

It's just a simple question – one he doesn't intend to say as skeptically as he does. But the judgment is clear in his tone, and it's too late to take it back now. She hardly blames him for this, though. Instead, she laughs.

"Well, now I know how you feel about it," she smiles, and he leans forward in his seat as she continues. "As for me – there are many, many theories out there about dreams. It would be shame to reject them all outright; different things help different minds, after all. You know the drill."

He does. But hell if he'll admit it. Freud's work was a staple in the field, but he wasn't right about everything. As for dream analysis – sometimes a cigar really _is_ just a cigar.

Nevertheless, Greene pushes on.

"My question for you is if you've had any recurring dreams. Or at least, anything that really sticks out to you."

He has to think for a moment before he finds anything. And what comes to mind is not particularly meaningful – but he offers it anyway.

"I mean… there's a dream I've had, like – twice. But it's a real memory. Nothing to it."

She dips her head as if to encourage him. He sighs and dives in.

"It was, uh… had to have been the summer of 2002. My then-girlfriend and I were working as camp counselors, but in addition to that, I was observing and developing a thesis on early childhood development. So it counted as an internship. Anyway…"

He tilts his head each way, earning a soft crack of the neck as he pauses.

"Anyway, it was just – it was one of those mornings where it's the middle of August, but it's cool out. So you can get away with wearing a sweatshirt in the summer. My girlfriend had asked me to grab her sweater from the car, so I went out to get it. And about halfway between the building and the parking lot, I just stopped. I looked at the sky; it was dark, blueish gray, and I just stood there, staring."

Greene nods, asks, "Do you remember what you were thinking at that moment?"

And he turns it over in his head.

"I remember thinking it was going to rain."

* * *

Week Eight, Day Four (Day Sixty)

On an early January morning, when the air is cold and heavy and the roads are thoroughly salted, a victim is found under an unstable bank of shifting snow. Her body is half-preserved – which is why the Jeffersonian's forensics team can tell she is a she on first glance. Caucasian. Strawberry blonde.

Anything beyond that is lost to the ground beneath her.

They survey the area and find, as they would on any other mid-winter case, there are few bugs to be found. And in spite of the snow around the body, in spite of the snowstorm headed their way in the next few days, it is a strange forty-two degree day, continuing a week-long trend. A lull before the storm, they know, but the decomposition it caused makes their job that much harder.

Regardless – they get to it. They transport her off to the lab, and over the course of an ongoing week-long investigation, they learn what they can about her.

For instance, they learn that her name was Carolyn Devoire; they learn that she was three weeks shy of her twenty-fifth birthday. A St. John's drop out, she racked up a handful of misdemeanor charges throughout her adult life, but nothing particularly damning. Petty theft and minor possession charges. In spite of all of that, though, her older brother – a lawyer – swears that, though she had her problems, there is absolutely no one that would wish her dead. To the best of his knowledge.

Interestingly enough, the damage to her bones – the blunt force trauma to her lower ribs, for instance, the fractures scattered across her skull – begs to differ. So they carry on.

* * *

Week Nine, Day Five (Day Sixty-Eight)

"There are things I keep trying to piece together," he says, a file held loosely in his hands as he sits back in his chair. Dr. Greene sits directly in front of him, perfectly attentive. "Her brother's statement that she was using, for example. Drug use is typically closely related to the circumstances of death in cases like these; but that doesn't seem to be the case."

"How so?" she asks, and, although he practically knows the case by heart, he leafs through the file's pages as he answers.

"Well, according her brother, she suddenly stopped altogether a few weeks ago. The whole time, she had been behaving rashly and practically melancholic. My first thought was withdrawal. But – still according to her brother – she didn't use that frequently. She had symptoms for about a week, but they phased out."

"Did she tell him why she stopped?"

Sweets shakes his head. "No. And he didn't ask. Figured she just wanted to quit a nasty habit before it got out of control. But what's more is that the lab found fractures and breaks in the victim's right hand; evidence that she most likely started the altercation with her killer with a strong punch. I'm thinking that has to be tied to her impulsive behavior, but without knowing the cause of it, there's no way to find a motive or a suspect."

Green nods, motioning for the file. Sweets wordlessly hands it over, and after a moment, she asks, "Any history of mental illness?"

He shakes his head yet again. "None. There isn't much in her medical records to go on, though. She had gone to a free clinic about a week before she stopped using, but we're still working on getting that file sent over."

He pauses as she reads – but after a moment, he considers something.

"Actually, based on the timing… those are probably related. A doctor's visit, followed by strange behavior, followed by a most likely emotionally charged altercation. It seems like some sort of illness had to be involved, maybe something terminal, like cancer or something."

They both pause. In the stretch of silence that follows, Green turns to one page and stays there, scanning. After a few moments, she lifts her head and takes a deep breath. Almost hesitantly, she is forced to refute it.

"Doctor Sweets," she says, carefully. "If you've memorized these files like I'm sure you have… you know that can't be true. Doctor Saroyan and Doctor Brennan performed physical examinations on the victim and found… no tumors. No osteal evidence of anything remotely related."

He turns it over in his head – and in a moment, his stomach drops.

"I shouldn't have said that."

She reaches for a separate file, a thin Manilla folder that Sweets immediately recognizes as his own. After grabbing the pen from behind her ear, she opens it and makes a note; the younger psychologist is almost afraid to ask what it is. But he does anyway.

He takes a breath. "What did you write?"

And after a moment, Greene sighs. "I wrote that there was evidence of projection."

"It doesn't have to be cancer," he amends, defends, insists. "Multiple sclerosis. AIDS. Early stage ALS. There are other possibilities."

"Doctor Sweets," she starts, and he braces himself. "I think it's time to… consider what's going on."

That's how she starts. And he can't bring himself to say another word, not even in his own defense.

"Your illness is a difficult thing to combat. On all fronts. And in the time that we've been meeting, while you've certainly maintained a professional attitude towards it… it has become clear the effect it has on you," she takes a breath, and he looks away. "Mentally as well as physically."

She means projection of his own cancer onto the victim; she means his hair, or rather his lack thereof. She means a whole host of things, and hell if he can argue a single one of them.

"Attendance has been an issue," she continues. "It's understandable, of course. Warranted, even, but I'm sure you understand that the Bureau has a tougher standard. Take that and consider the fact that your job performance may be negatively affected by it. And in addition to that – I would try hard to consider the effect this job has on you. There is the immediate stress of your illness compounded with a high stress, high stakes environment, and it is my professional opinion that such an environment will only cause more harm."

She's dancing around the point. How Socratic. But Lance Sweets was never a fan of Socrates.

"You're going to put me on leave," he says, not exactly accusatory – but close to it.

"It's not my choice to make," she offers. She closes one file and hands the other back to him. "My job is to make recommendations on whether you're fit to continue. Regardless of what I say, Hacker is always free not to listen. What I am saying, though… is that I don't want you to be surprised if he does not decide it is in the Bureau's best interest – as well as your own – to keep you on."

There is a small, tinny beep from his wristwatch, just as she finishes; their hour is up. So, after a moment, he nods, stands from his seat and goes to shake her hand.

"I understand. Thank you, Dr. Greene."

She gives him a halfhearted smile before he turns to leave – and before he reaches the doorway, she stops him for just a second more.

"Doctor Sweets?" she calls, and he turns his head. "You know, recommendations aside – my job is to help you. So, regardless of what Hacker decides in terms of your employment status… I hope you know that I will remain a resource for you."

Sweets smiles.

"Thanks."

He offers her that single word before he disappears from the doorway.

* * *

The next morning, Hacker calls him into his office. The morning after, he turns in his keys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A probably obvious disclaimer: I am a tiny college student who has very little knowledge of how the FBI actually functions, in spite of all the X Files I watch. Very sorry hahahaha. That said, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Reviews would be lovely! :)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is getting harder to write as I consider everything going on at this point in time. All the people that could be touched, harmed, in any way affected by this topic. Sometimes I wish I never started this story. But other times I don't know. I don't know. Any strong feelings?
> 
> In my head, the ending changes constantly. There are three different ways I could choose to end it, and I gotta think - which is the most respectful? And which ending makes the story worth the read, worth your patience? Are they the same? It isn't just realism I have to be concerned with, I'm realizing. I'm hoping the story will decide that by itself. But it's not there yet.

 

 

 

 

* * *

"If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character... would you slow down? Or speed up?"

 

― Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

* * *

Week Twenty-Two, Day One | April 2013

There have been moments in his life wherein time, as a constant, universal invariant, seemed to slow to a sluggish, tedious crawl. From what he knows of time, however, of its consistency – he knows that could never be true. Instead, he figures that his perception, the whole of his thoughts, simply moves faster. Given a monster of a situation to think through, it seems to make sense.

Time never actually slowed down when he was twenty years old and got the call that his father had died. The train ride back home the very next morning took just as long as it always did, even if his legs did suddenly feel like stone as he stepped onto the platform at the end.

Time did not slow down when he had to watch his mother follow suit, just weeks later. The flatline on the hospital monitor was a normal pitch, a consistent hum.

Such was the same when a young man died in front of him on a derailing train. When Heather Taffet was shot just feet from where he stood. When he himself was diagnosed with his own illness just months ago, offered a slow moving bullet, a delayed propulsion into a glittering subway pole.

And such is the same now.

Time does not slow as his feet take their time walking into Roden's office, as he shakes her hand and sits down. He has abandoned the concept of real clothes by now, and under different circumstances, he's sure that the obvious pajamas visible from under his coat would make him feel self-conscious. But part of him, he thinks, has become far too old to care. Roden clearly doesn't; she pays it no mind.

She calls him by his first name as he greets him, and he's hung up for just a moment, wondering if she had always called him that. And if she hadn't, he wonders when it changed. Hell, his name has been standalone "Sweets" for years, and he's gotten used to it. Few people call him anything else. He reals himself back in.

She doesn't ask how he's feeling this time. He's not sure what to make of it, at first; and then he is.

"Alright, Lance," she starts. "Well, I have the most recent scans of your abdominal cavity back, and there is some… concern… about them that needs to be addressed."

He is silent, listening intently as she pulls familiar laminated pictures out of his file. She moves at normal speed, and within seconds his tumor is laid out for him in six different ways, and he's left to wait for her explanation. And like all things, it comes to pass.

"The first two rounds of chemotherapy, as you're aware, were effective in reducing the size of the tumor. There's a visible difference, however slight, between these scans and the original," she points to each of the first three images. "However…" She gestures to the last three. "The effect on the tumor in the past three cycles has been… less than I'd hoped. I can't begin to explain it, but January's and February's treatments had virtually no effect. And in spite of last month's round… the tumor grew. Just slightly."

The images are all right out in front of him, but hell, he can't make sense of them. He makes sense of her words.

"So that…" he begins, taking a deep breath and wetting his lips. He feels sick, and some distant part of his mind is sure this is not supposed to happen until the line is in. "That means… the chemo isn't working."

There is a moment of gross anticipation before she speaks again.

"It means that the tumor may be becoming more resistant to chemotherapy treatments, which is… honestly unusual for this type of cancer. It's usually very chemo-sensitive. We're going to go ahead on this round, see if this trend continues. Ideally, it should reverse. I'm hoping the growth will stop."

He blinks at her, slow, careful. "And… not ideally?" (Realistically?)

"If the trend does continue, we're going to stop chemotherapy. I won't waste your time on treatment that doesn't work."

He considers this. "Then what?"

"Then," she sighs, placing the scans back into the folder on her desk. "It would seem that surgery would be the only conventional option. I'm not confident that radiation would be effective… and as I said back in November, the placement of the tumor makes this surgery somewhat… risky, in that I can't guarantee its success. But we're not there yet. Okay? Let's focus on this round first, and we'll see where to go from there."

He nods without particularly thinking about it, offers some agreement. And as soon as they're done, he follows a nurse to a generic room in a familiar wing, his feet moving at their normal speed as his mind runs on and on and on – a runaway train.

* * *

He calls Booth as soon as his line is in and counts the rings until the older agent answers. It takes three and a half, and Sweets is struck with the thought that he's interrupting something as Booth finally picks up.

"Hey," is all the psychologist says at first.

"Hey, Sweets! I was just getting finished with an interview, then I was going to head over. I was about to call to see if you needed anything."

"Oh, uh – thanks," Sweets replies, then pauses. Then continues. "But I don't need anything. Actually… about that, I was just calling to tell you that they're restricting visitors in the wing for a few days. There's a patient in the next room over that's really infection-prone. They don't really want anyone coming through."

There's a pause on the other end of the line for just a moment, but once it's over, he can practically hear Booth nodding, hesitant.

"Okay… sure. So I won't drive up then. Thanks for letting me know. Still, just give me a call if you need anything, okay? Let me know when I can swing by."

"Yeah," Sweets replies. "Sure thing."

And the conversation is over. He hangs up his phone, slides it back into the pocket of his pajama pants, and finds himself alone in the silence once again until, resigned, he gets up and wheels his IV pole into the bathroom.

He sees himself in the mirror and thinks, in that moment, of everything. He thinks of the scans on Roden's desk; he thinks of the plain way she told him their results. He thinks of the tumor settled in his gut, and in the moment, he could swear that he feels it. Each individual, cancerous cell, ripping apart and multiplying over and over and over again, and he glances down at his wrist, at the line that's pumping him full of all the useless doxorubicin and vincristine and cyclophosphamide his body can take.

All at once, he reaches forward and white-knuckles the sink and braces himself to dizzily, miserably puke up whatever breakfast he hurriedly ate in the car, but it never comes. It never comes, and all he does is simply stand there, breathing.

* * *

Week Twenty-Two, Day Three

By the time he opens his eyes to the late afternoon sun shining lazily through the window, he is vaguely aware of someone lightly breathing behind him. A quiet presence that _must_ be sitting in chair next to the bed, one he's got his back to.

Sleepily keeping in mind his phone call with Booth, he spends a few moments wondering who it could be before finally, hesitantly turning his head to see.

"Anyone ever say it's weird to watch a man sleep?" he hears himself say, light enough to be a joke, but still betraying the fact that it's true. He turns over and sits up, and he finds himself face to face with a smiling, familiar someone – perhaps the only someone he finds himself wanting to see.

And that someone throws his hands up in mock defense and apologizes. Sort of.

"Ah, sorry, Sharkbait," he says with a grin. "I was getting bored."

Those words, at first, force Sweets' stomach to sharply drop, because being bored implies idle time. Idle time in a cancer center has implications of its own; but he manages a nervous glance down at the other man's left arm and finds nothing. No needles, no lines. His shoulders relax, along with the rest of him. To a point.

Still, he smiles.

"Hey, Gil. Long time, no see."

"Long time, no see, that's all, mate?" Oliver White counters with a splitting smile of his own, lightly punching the psychologist's right shoulder. "It's been what? Five months? How you been, kid?"

He gets that question a lot, though he supposes that Oliver is far more used to it than he is. He knows the answer; there's a big white blotch stuck in his mind's eye.

"I've been better," he says quickly, immediately following the question with its reversal. "How about you? Glad to see you, man, but I was hoping it'd be awhile."

With a smile, the older man says, "Not to worry, no recurrence yet. Here for some follow-up scans, but they've got to sort out a problem with the monitors or something. Just took a peek at the sign in sheet, saw you were here and figured I'd stop by."

_There's_ what Sweets wanted to hear.

"So what exactly do you mean by 'been better,' Sharky?" And that's what he didn't want to hear. Oliver leans back in the chair and puts one foot up on the bedframe, as if to say that he's got all the time in the world to wait for the answer. Sweets sighs.

"I mean… well, I've just had better days."

"Yeah?" Oliver starts. "Feeling that shitty?"

He puts it plainly, but Sweets shakes his head. In this moment, he feels just fine in the way that Oliver means. He looks away.

"No. I'm just… angry. I guess."

Oliver nods but stays quiet, opting instead to let the younger man go on uninterrupted. After a few seconds of building silence, he does.

"I met with Dr. Roden the other day, before my line was started," he holds up his right arm for emphasis he doesn't need. "She said the chemo's not working. And even though surgery might not even work, she's saying it might be the only option."

A pause.

"That's what's got you angry?"

Sweets nods. "That's what's got me angry."

There is a stretch of silence that follows, and once it's over, Oliver lets out a pent up breath.

"Angry is… better than sad. I think." He looks down at the floor once, and then back up. "I'm sorry."

Sweets isn't looking at him anymore; instead, his eyes are fixed on some nondescript point on the opposite wall. Moments pass before he finds more to say.

"More… indignant than angry, maybe."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

A pause.

"You know…" he starts, stops, breathes, continues. "I don't like to… don't like to complain. About things in my life, you know? Because sure, it's been… I've gotten a couple bad hands. But I've got it a hell of a lot better than a hell of a lot of people. But still."

He glances down at the line in his arm and can't get the image of the six different white blotches out of his mind.

"It'd be nice to catch a break. I mean – the amount of times I've almost died since the day I was born. I just don't know… I don't know if this is gonna be it. And I don't know if it's gonna be another almost. I don't know _if_ , and I sure as hell don't know when, and that's – it's frustrating as hell."

Oliver lets him finish, and they spend the next few moments sitting in silence until the older man glances his way and nods in agreement.

"It is," he says. "But – I don't know, just a question for ya – do you think… do you think you'd do anything different? I mean if you knew. If you know when you were gonna die, right down to the minute. Would you change anything?"

Machines whir around the room, down the hall, across the wing, all coming together in a static hum. The building is alive.

"I don't know," Sweets admits, looking back at Oliver with his eyebrows pulled together in gentle thought. He is about to return the question when a familiar face pokes into the room.

Dr. Roden smiles softly at the two of them. "Thought I'd find you here, Mr. White. Dr. Sweets. Oliver, the technicians are ready for you."

The man nods. "Right. I'll just be a second."

And she hesitates for a moment – but finally offers a quick _alright_ and ducks out.

Sweets watches, then, as Oliver reaches for the cell phone perched on the closest table, and as he stares, the older man smiles.

"I waited an hour for them, they can wait a few seconds for me. Here," he says, and after a few seconds of quiet tapping on the screen, he tosses it back to Sweets, who catches it in his lap. "Added my number in. Give me a call when you think of an answer – alright?"

Sweets considers it. "Alright."

"Good," Oliver says with a smile on his face, and with that, he walks toward the door. "I'll catch ya later, Sharkbait. Alright?"

And he is gone before Sweets can answer.

Alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love to hear some thoughts. If nothing else, how is your day going?


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SORRY AO3 FRIENDS -- I had more chapters up on FF.net but never added them here haha. Massive update coming! Would love some feedback:)

**Week 22, Day Five | April, 2013**

"Do I have to go through it again?" Booth asks as Sweets buckles himself into the passenger seat, and as he does, he can't quite place the tone of the older agent's voice. There's no heat in the question, no anger, no annoyance. Although, Sweets supposes, he wouldn't begrudge him that.

He realized just that morning that he never actually called Booth after the first day of the round. Not when he woke up to a few missed calls on the second day, third day, fourth day. Not even when the round was over, to let him know that he could come inside. Booth ended up waiting in the parking lot, just a few semi-answered text messages away, until Sweets finally appeared, reserved and ready to leave.

"Go through what?" he asks with no inflection, no irritation, no anything.

There's a beat of silence as Booth shifts his car from park to reverse to drive and pulls out, and he offers a strange sigh as his tires find the road.

"You know. You holed yourself up in your apartment after last round, Sweets, and since you're not at the Bureau right now, I don't see you. I don't know how things are. And even though it's probably better for you to stay with us for a day or two, and even though we _want you there,_ you're going to say…" he lifts his voice up as he trails off, inviting the younger man to fill in the blank.

Instead, Sweets offers a muted exhale and a quiet rebuttal. "If you already know I'm going to say I'm almost twenty-eight years old and I'm fine taking care of himself, why ask the question?"

"I don't know," Booth replies. "Thought maybe we'd get on the same page. Because if you want to go home, I'll take you there. I don't have to like it. But I gotta say again that I think you should come stay, if not for you, then just to spend some time with us. Bones misses you, and Christine even learned a few new words I think you'd get a kick out of."

He leaves it at that, and for the next few moments, they sit in tense, familiar silence. In truth, Sweets can think of nothing better than just getting back to his own house, changing his clothes, and climbing into bed to watch re-runs of _whatever_. Except, maybe, that same scenario, just with his old roommates' cat still running around, laying down with him on occasion. But that's not the point.

The point is that, ideally, he'd be home, by himself, where he doesn't have to put so much energy into being okay. If he goes home, he thinks – he wouldn't have to pretend that conversation with Roden never happened. (And sure, there's a voice in his head telling him that he doesn't have to do that anyway – but hell if he doesn't ignore it yet again.)

He thinks this – but he also considers that once he goes home, home will be all he has. Exhaustion shoved aside, isolation has always left a bitter, nervous taste in Lance Sweets' mouth.

So, once again, he nods.

"Fine," he agrees, but at a loss for more eloquent words. "Fine."

* * *

And yet, for someone who has always loved people and hated isolation, he sure spends enough time in the guest room – half asleep, half awake – before Brennan gently, hesitantly knocks.

He pushes himself off the bed at the noise and opens the door as soon as he gets to it, and as he rubs his eyes, he sees her.

He greets her with a tired, "Hey."

"Hey," she echoes, her eyebrows suddenly knitting together in concern and near-embarrassment. "I'm sorry – were you asleep?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "No, I wasn't. I was – no. Sorry. What's…?"

"It's fine, Sweets," she says, and in the brief pause that follows, they look each other up and down. Not because they can't help but scrutinize each other; but because they can. And supposedly they care enough to do it anyway.

For example, he looks as if he was, in fact, just asleep and she did, in fact, wake him. There's still some sleep left in his eyes, still a stiffness to how he's standing, that makes it clear enough to her.

Meanwhile – she just looks disheveled, but only slightly. She's in the middle of a case, he knows, and he figures she must have gone from a full day of investigative work to home and her eighteen month old with only a twenty minute drive in between, and her put-togetherness is really a marvel. An inspiration to him.

"I just wanted to ask if you'd like to come join us for dinner downstairs," she finishes after a few moments.

And he hesitates – because the only thing that's been running around in his head is his meeting with Roden, over and over and over again, and he's not sure he can manage any kind of not-terrified demeanor for very long. But in the end, he smiles before he can think on it, because hell if he is going to stay here and be rude.

He nods his head and says yes. Not quite in spite of himself – but in spite of something.

* * *

Dinner lasts about an hour, with conversation coming and going – but mostly going.

Christine manages a few new words, a few charming smiles. But once the meal is over, once the table is cleared and the dishes put away, Sweets politely, classically, excuses himself once again.

Half an hour after that, the eighteen-month old is put to bed – and Brennan and Booth find themselves reconvened in the kitchen once again, each with the same thing on their minds.

"He seems…" Brennan starts, leaning forward against the kitchen island with her forearms against the edge. She takes a moment to search for a word. "Quiet."

It's all she can think of to describe it. An hour together with so few words exchanged, a pair of eyes across from her that refused to look at hers. Everything about Sweets this evening screamed _subdued._

Booth can only nod in agreement, his hands in his pockets and his jaw set. It's true; he saw it himself. But after a long pause, all he can offer his wife is a sigh. Something akin to resignation.

"Yeah, I know," he says. "But…"

She waits. Eventually, he continues.

"Something's bothering him. I don't know what, and he obviously doesn't want to talk about it. Which is ironic. But… I don't know. I can't keep pushing him. We can't. I think that bothers him more."

"I don't see how," Brennan interjects, honesty and curiosity somewhere in her tone. "We care about him."

Another nod, slow and careful. "I know. And he knows. Sweets knows we care about him. But at this point… I don't know. Maybe it would be better if – look, he knows we're always here if he needs us. Maybe that's enough."

She looks doubtful – and hell if he doesn't feel doubt in himself. He's felt nothing but doubt since November, if he's honest.

"I don't know, Bones. I think – I think if he really needs us, he'll let us know."


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I had this chapter written for so long, like months before I finished chapters before it. Whatever, haha, hope you enjoy! :)

* * *

"Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care? Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?"

\- _Will I?,_ RENT

* * *

**Week 22, Day Six (2:47AM) | April, 2013**

It is edging close to three in the morning when Booth jolts awake to not only the sound of the rain pouring against the roof and resonating through the house, but also the sound of something slamming against a distant doorframe, something hitting the floor with a muffled bang.

Brennan doesn't stir.

All at once he's on his feet, rushing out to investigate; and soon enough he finds the source of all that noise on his knees, hunched over the toilet in the bathroom, white-knuckling the seat. The echoing sound of Lance Sweets violently puking up his dinner is enough to draw a wince from where Booth is leaning against the doorjamb, and it suddenly occurs to him that this is the first time he's seeing his best friend really – well. Sick.

Sure, he knows Sweets has had it rough since before his first chemo round in November. And as much as the psychologist always tried to brush everything off – as if he none of this bothered him, as if he was somehow untouchable – Booth could still _tell._ He'd slip occasionally, make brief mention of a rough night here and there. He'd pass on meals. He'd doze off far earlier into a car ride than he ever used to, and as they moved further from November and closer to now, the paleness, the weight loss, and everything else became just _that_ much more noticeable. Booth knows Sweets is sick because he always _looks_ sick.

But watching him tremble and shake in the dim glow of the hall light, hearing him gasp and sputter after a miserable heave, it's far different. Far scarier than the barred illusion of knowledge he had before. And part of him, honestly, is guilty, ashamed of that fact; after all, what kind of friend can he call himself? What kind of friend is never there when he sure as hell should be? For a moment, there's small voice in the back of his head insisting that he tried his best – but a louder, far more realistic notion says that that is clearly not enough. It's never enough.

"Sweets? You okay?" His voice echoes and bounces off the tiles and Sweets can't quite conceal his surprised jump at the sudden sound.

When the psychologist turns his head towards the door, all Booth notices is the waxy shade of green in his cheeks, the growing dark circles under his eyes. It seems to take Sweets a moment to register him; and once he does, he clumsily nods his head.

"Yeah," he says in between breaths. "I'm f-fine."

And yet he barely makes it to the end of that sentence before another heave wracks him through, and he's throwing up another round.

"I'm fine," Sweets pants into the toilet once again, no louder than a whisper. He's somehow even less convincing than before, and Booth is idly, stupidly frozen to his spot for a moment, wondering what to do. What do people _typically_ do when their friends are sick in their bathrooms? Sweets has no hair to hold back, and if it were Booth kneeling there, he'd sure as hell want to be left alone. But that's not the case.

He has no idea what other people typically do with their friends; but he has a fair idea of what Seeley Booth would do with Lance Sweets.

"Yeah," he says, padding over and kneeling just next to Sweets. "You _look_ fine."

Sweets' shirt is off. Booth only notices when he starts to bring a hand to the younger man's back and pauses, leaves it hovering just over the skin. The scars across his shoulders are perfectly visible now, somehow prominent in the dim light, and for the briefest moment, Booth is embarrassingly on edge. If Sweets cares about any of this, though, he doesn't show it. So Booth pushes it from his mind and gently lays a hand against his back, just between his shoulder blades.

He finds Sweets' back warm with fever, slick with sweat – and suddenly knotted with tension as he leans over and pukes for a third and very nearly a fourth time.

"Sorry," Sweets whispers as he straightens up, still hanging his head in either exhaustion or embarrassment; it's difficult to tell. Still, Booth will have none of it.

"Hey, not exactly something you could help, right? Don't worry about it." Booth's tone is surprisingly gentle, which is – in effect – slightly frightening.

Sweets takes this to mean he must really look like shit.

After a few moments of worried silence and heavy breathing, Sweets just murmurs to the man beside him, "You know you don't have to stay. I'll be fine."

Booth appears to consider this for a moment – and yet it takes no consideration at all.

"That's okay. I got nothing better to do."

"You sure about that?" Sweets manages a ghost of a halfhearted smile. "I can think of a few good things. Sleeping, for instance. Always helpful."

"Could say the same for you. But..."

Effectively cutting him off, Sweets pitches forward again and gives another miserable heave. When he pulls himself back up, the room spins just slightly – but his eyes still manage to focus on Booth, whose hand has moved to rest on his left shoulder, his palm blocking the bulk of the scars there from view.

"'m a little busy at th' moment."

If he sways just slightly saying this, Booth doesn't say anything about it. Instead, the agent's better judgment forces whatever's left of his male ego down as he brings the inside of his wrist to Sweets' head to find an uncomfortable heat against his skin.

"I should take you to a hospital."

Sweets immediately starts shaking his head, but Booth suddenly seems adamant, his tone serious.

"Sweets, you're burning up here, this is a high grade fever!"

The psychologist, now leaning against the toilet, his forehead resting on his folded arms, lifts a hand and waves it off.

"It's all the chemo," he breathes. "Happens after every round. The fever'll go down. All you'll get is a wasted trip, and probably some vomit in your car."

Booth sighs, frustrated, yet seeing the logic.

"Fine. Can I get you something, then?"

He could probably have predicted the shake of Sweets' head and the muffled, "No. I'm fine." But then he notices Sweets shaking like a leaf under his hand, and he decides to override that.

"I'll be right back," the agent says, and is out of the room before he can hear the quiet _'kay_ offered in response.

When he comes back with an armful of things just a minute later, having taken care to be quiet in the hallway, he turns back into the bathroom to find Sweets throwing up for a fifth time, a particularly painful-sounding heave as he holds a hand over his stomach, the other gripping the toilet again to keep him upright. As soon as he's finished – at least for the time being – he flushes the toilet and clumsily moves back to lean against the wall behind him, his eyes screwed shut.

Booth, still standing in the doorway, decides he probably wasn't meant to hear the quiet moan Sweets lets out.

He steps out of the room for just a moment before walking back in, this time announcing his entrance.

"Okay," he says, placing a few things on the sink and stepping back over to Sweets. "Lean forward for a second."

Sweets doesn't open his eyes at first, but does as he's told. And when he finally does open his eyes, it's to a blanket being draped over his shoulders. He can't suppress a sudden sigh.

"Thanks. But you really didn't have to; I don't need it."

"Yeah, I know, I know," Booth says, his patience still miraculously unwavering. "You're fine. But it's cold and rainy outside, and fever or no fever, you're not wearing a shirt. So why not? And either way, here's something you do need."

The agent reaches over to the sink and brings back a tall glass of water and a small bottle of Tylenol. Before Sweets can start to argue, Booth says, "It might not work that well, but if it brings the fever down even a little, it's better than nothing. And you need water."

Unsurprisingly, Sweets shakes his head.

"Won't stay down," is all he supplies.

"Fine," Booth says, still pushing the glass Sweets' way. "Humor me."

With another deep sigh, Sweets nods his head and reaches for the pills Booth shakes into his palm. Without a word, he throws them back and takes a small sip of water – which soon turns into half the glass, because in spite of himself, he _is_ thirsty and suddenly very conscious of the sour taste of vomit in his mouth.

It stays down for all of thirty seconds before coming right back up, and Sweets is bent over the toilet once again. Booth's hand finds its way to his back, just as before, and they stay that way – with Sweets breathing heavily over the bowl and Booth left to watch with quiet sympathy – for another minute before the shrink's quiet voice draws his attention.

"Booth?" he says, no louder than a whisper.

"Yeah?"

There is a heavy, pregnant pause before he finally admits it: "I'm not fine."

And Booth tenses behind him. "I can grab my keys –"

"No," Sweets says, keeping his eyes cast down, away from Booth, and if a single tear starts snaking down his face in that moment, neither of them really care. "I just – I'm not fine."

Booth doesn't say anything at first. He just keeps his hand firm on Sweets' back until the psychologist moves to lean back against the wall. He takes a moment to rub his tired eyes with his knuckles.

"I'm not fine," he says for a third time, his voice shaking like the rest of him, as if he's realizing it for the very first time. But that is far from the case. "I feel like shit."

Booth moves over to sit right next to him, but all he can bring himself to say is, "Yeah." Because that fact was always so clear to see, even if Sweets never would admit it.

But he's admitting it now.

"I'm tired all the time," he whispers, his voice breaking. "And I can't – I can't keep anything down. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of all of it. I'm sick of being dizzy; I'm sick of throwing up, I'm sick of the fevers and all the mouth sores and everything else. I'm sick of not being at work. And I'm sick of all the looks I get whenever I go anywhere – because people see a guy with no hair, who looks like he hasn't slept in five months, and they just _know_. I'm sick and tired – of being sick and tired. And you know what?"

Fully expecting the answer to come in time, Booth doesn't ask. He just glances over and notices Sweets scrubbing at his face to wipe away the tear tracks on his cheeks. When he pulls his hands away, he takes a deep breath.

"I'm… _fucking_ terrified that it's all going to be for nothing."

And with that, Sweets' stomach gives an audible gurgle, and this time he doesn't care if Booth hears the quiet whimper the churning in his belly draws from him, because all at once he's exhausted and sick and vulnerable, and the rain outside only adds to it all. The night has a way of bringing this out in people – and he is far from an exception. He crosses both hands over his stomach again and pulls his knees in, and as soon as he's done moving, Booth places his hand on Sweets' shoulder once again.

"It's not going to be for nothing, Sweets," he says. He's been called on this before; but he says it anyway. Whether it's to convince the psychologist or himself, though – he's not entirely sure. "I know it's hard, and – yeah, you're not fine now. But you're going to be okay. You'll get better."

"Will I?" Sweets says, something of a challenge in his voice. He throws in a sad, disconnected laugh against his better judgment and shakes his head. He can't even look at Booth anymore; he can't risk seeing the face next to him that must be so full of false hope. If he does, he thinks he might start crying and never stop.

"You know I lied to you on Monday? When I said – when I said they weren't allowing visitors that week. You coulda come around any time and no one would've stopped you. I lied – because I spoke to Dr. Roden before she started my line, and I couldn't… you know what she said? She said…"

He trails off, takes a deep, shaky breath. He continues with eyes closed.

"She said that the chemo stopped working. She said it worked the first two rounds, shrunk the tumor like it's supposed to. The third time, it didn't do anything. And then the round before this one… she said it grew. Just a little bit. If this round doesn't work… then she doesn't know. She said we'll figure it out, but… I couldn't handle that. So I lied."

He goes quiet, and the silence that stretches between them is thick and daunting.

"I didn't know that," Booth says after forever, stunted and gaping. He finds it's all he can manage to get out. Sweets just nods.

Time passes. And with the crash of rain on the roof echoing around them, with the faded hallway light illuminating only half of his face, he says it: "I'm gonna die."

"No you're not," Booth tries to argue, but his case is falling apart. Sweets finally finds it in him to look at the agent, and there's nothing but a sad sort of realization locked in his red-rimmed eyes.

"Well," Sweets says. "There's the thing about life, I guess. It ends. No matter what."

Before the agent can argue - not that he could find the right words to do so - Sweets is leaning back over the toilet. Booth falls right back into place, just by his side as he goes back to heaving and half-choking on sour air.

They stay like that for God knows how long, until long after Sweets' stomach surrendered everything it had. They stay like that until Sweets is reduced to dry heaves and violent gags, sagging against Booth with exhaustion.

Water doesn't stay down until the third try, and the words, "Slow sips, idiot," said gently and without heat, are the first Booth says after that stretch of silence. And miraculously, after half a glass – roughly five ounces, more or less – of slow sips, nothing makes a reappearance. And they take their victories where they can get them.

Suddenly, blinking tiredly at Booth, Sweets looks as if he could be washed away by the rain outside any second.

But a better option than that is getting back to bed. Both of their eyelids are heavy and stiff, but Booth still finds it in him to help Sweets off the floor and wait for him to slowly brush his teeth. And even though the younger man is fully capable of finding his own way back to the guest room, Booth still leads him there and he offers no protest.

He lingers in the doorway for a moment as Sweets sits down on the bed.

"Sweets," he says, his tone perfectly even as if this is a statement in itself.

"Hm?"

"You're gonna be fine. Alright?"

A pause. Sweets just looks at him with nervous eyes similar to a child's, as if Booth has all the important answers. But he doesn't. All he's got is a feeling.

"And how do you know that?" The skepticism in his voice is flimsy, weak.

"I just do."

That's all the reasoning Sweets will get for tonight, and for the time being, it's what he must take. Booth leaves the room straight after, leaving him to turn that over.

He doesn't dwell on it too long, though. He's dead asleep again before he can tack any meaning into it.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok now you guys are up to date! Also, a quick plug if I may haha: I started a writing blog awhile ago, I don't update too often, but if you have a few minutes to spare, I'd really appreciate some followers/likes+reblogs/critique if you've got some! it's **jobarcia.tumblr.com** :)
> 
> also, unrelated, but does anyone watch Archer? I just started that (during finals week whoooops), it's pretty decent hahahahaha
> 
> enjoy the chapter!  
> 

* * *

I can face it just about  
I'd rather hurt than live without  
But I will rage and scream and shout  
A love, a life, it's dark and bright  
It's beautiful and it's alright

– Nothing Stays The Same, Lucas Sital-Singh

* * *

 

**Week Twenty-Four, Day Four | May 2013**

In that moment, he decides that he hates the look of Alice Roden's office with an unimaginable passion. In fact, he's hated it for a long, long time. And he supposes that's what happens when you find yourself somewhere so often; the carpet, the walls, each framed doctorate on the wall, they all become hideous. Eyesores he would rather not see, although he knows that's unfair.

It's not them giving him bad news, after all.

But he can't blame Roden. He likes her well enough, and regardless, she's just doing her job. So where he can't blame her, he can blink his eyes towards the walls and tap his heel on the carpet, wordlessly sending frustrated vibes. A silent _fuck you_ to all those frames behind the desk, futile as ever.

Booth, sitting in the chair just beside him, is bouncing his leg as well. Not out of pure hatred for this room, like Sweets – but just because that's him. He is a leg-bouncer by nature, filled with more energy than he knows what to do with, and so the two of them just sit there – bouncing their knees in varying tempos until the oncologist in front of them pulls out files and results and news.

She lays scan results out in front of them, just as she did the last time Sweets sat in this miserable room. And just as before, she is hard-pressed to find anything positive to say about them.

"Well, Lance, we…" she says. "We had you on as large a dose of chemotherapy as your body weight would allow. Unfortunately… it has become clear that it has become ineffective. There was slight additional growth this time around. I think it's time to consider resection surgery."

Strangely enough, he is calm. It won't last, but he can feel Booth looking at him and hear himself quietly replying, "Well… what's there to consider? Even if it's not a guarantee, if that's what you feel is the right step – I'm willing to go with it."

A nod. A sigh.

"Alright. Now, I can imagine it will take some time to sort things out. You can call my office whenever you're ready to schedule –"

"Actually, I can do it now," he interrupts. "There's not… a whole lot that needs sorting."

He leaves it at that and offers a tight smile, and Roden carefully returns it. "Okay. In that case… you can make the appointment at the front desk before you leave. But before that, I'd like to go over the details of the surgery, if you have time now?"

He's got nothing but time, and in the absence of any case, Booth's got the same. So they sit, bounce their legs, and listen.

* * *

**Week Twenty-Four, Day Five**

"I just…" his voice falters, hitches but only just so. He closes his eyes. Standing in the center of the room, an office he hasn't seen enough of to hate just yet, he takes a deep breath. And he opens his eyes to look back at Dr. Greene, to see her waiting patiently for him to say something more.

"I just never thought that this would be my life. You know? I –"

He sees her waiting patiently.

"All of it," he says. "All of this. I…"

She waits, far too patient, and he sighs.

"This was always something that happened to other people. It was something that… you know, you hear about. You hear about it happening, even to people you know, and all you can do is think to yourself, 'Oh. That's sad.' And then… you keep living your life. You think about it for a second and then it passes, and you can go back to – to everything else. Everything else that's relevant to you, because that's not your life. This is. I just…"

He closes his eyes again. In the dark, he used to try and pretend that this was all just one big dream. Something he could wake up from, brush off his shoulders and leave behind.

He's past that now. The windows in Marina Greene's office let in nothing but light, and as soon as he opens his eyes again, he can see it.

"I just never thought it would be relevant to me. Cancer and chemo and surgery… the idea that I might not get married someday. I might not buy a house or have kids. I might not watch Christine and Michael grow up or watch my friends build their lives anymore. It never even occurred to me. And now… now that's my life and it's always going to be, at least to some degree. And somewhere, someone else – I know – is living their life. Maybe they heard about me, maybe they vaguely heard about the psychologist on the eighth floor who's on leave because he's too sick, and maybe they're thinking that it's sad. Maybe they hope I get better real soon, but only for a second. That's how – that's just how it works."

And he can't even bring himself to be angry about it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Greene sit up straight in her seat, adjust her glasses. Finally, she nods.

"You're right. You're right, it is… extraordinarily difficult to see beyond the scope of our lives. It's a frustrating boundary. It's one we never really see until it's broken."

Her notes are gone, now that she has no need to file reports. That's fine by him. Preferable, even. He's got nothing to prove to anyone anymore.

"So if – if you feel guilty… maybe, for being so stuck in your own scope, I just want you to be aware that the things that were relevant to you were still important. You've done a lot of good, Lance, and you're going to keep doing good. The only thing that's changed – is that now you have a bigger scope."

He smiles.

He smiles and hopes to God she's right.

* * *

**Week Twenty-Eight, Day One | May, 2013**

He can't sleep.

He's home, now – in the house he once shared with two roommates, sitting in the dark in his bedroom at the end of the upstairs hallway. His eyelids are heavy, but he's tried for hours to fall asleep with no success.

He never expected to fall asleep tonight, anyway.

So he stands from his bed for the millionth time, walks around the room. Feels the carpet under his feet, grabs the bedframe with his left hand as he walks around it, and finally he comes to the dresser. He comes to see the pictures sitting on top, just barely visible in the soft light from the hall; there's one of himself, flanked by his parents on his first of several graduations. Smiling.

There's one of him and Daisy, taken at a diner after a case; he remembers, everyone had stayed at the lab until the case was completely closed, and by the time they finished, it was nearing eleven o'clock at night and they were starving. Food and drinks it was, then, on a warm evening in June.

There's one of Christine, only a few days old, smiling in her mother's arms. She was Brennan's spitting image in those first few days, first few weeks, even. But after a short while, Booth began shining through as well, making her the perfect mix of two of his favorite people.

Hell, there's even a picture of his cat – not his old roommates' cat, but the one he'd known when he was eight years old and still trying to get used to a new town, even after two years. He'd still get nervous every once in a while about all the new things around him, but that damn cat was a stubborn constant, he remembers. Head butts on the couch, pointed requests for belly-rubs – all welcome distractions. He'd taken the picture with his mother's camera and accidentally left the flash on, so the cat looks far more white than orange. But Sweets remembers.

Sweets remembers everything.

It's his life, after all.

He stands there for years and years and years, playing it all back in the dark. He stands there until his face is wet and he's running out of air in his lungs because goddamn it, this is his life and he doesn't want to lose it just let. He stands there until he's not – until he's crossed the room and he's frantically grabbing his phone with shaking hands and dialing the first number he can think to call at half past four in the morning.

He lets out a shaky breath as he hears the voicemail greeting, the familiar voice telling him to just leave a message, and it will get back to him soon. It sounds like a promise.

He pulls in another breath, and all at once, he's crying as he speaks through the line.

"Hey, Oliver," he says. "You know – you know I thought about it. Real hard."

He stares at the faces on his dresser, all smiling back at him.

"And I wouldn't change a thing. I wouldn't change a damn thing."


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was almost 4am when I posted this on FF hahaha, and it's getting close to it now. It was worth it, though, this is the last chapter of part one. Hope it doesn't disappoint! The next two parts are definitely going to be shorter, though. I realized just how much unnecessary information I had in the earlier chapters, and I'm trying to fix those. I'll let you know when that editing's all done haha
> 
> Also, as you might note, the quote at the top of this chapter is where I got the title of this story from. RENT is an amazing show that everyone should see (I think it's all on youtube and I think the movie is on Netflix!), and this song is especially powerful.
> 
> You should also note that I pulled a line or two of dialogue from the film 50/50 (also amazing!). Just letting ya know! I hope you like how this part ends. Reviews and comments would be lovely:) Enjoy!

* * *

And when you're dying in America

At the end of the millennium –

You're not alone.

– What You Own, RENT

* * *

**Week Twenty-Eight, Day Two | May, 2013**

Late May in Washington D.C. is a small piece of a mild spring, with temperatures just bordering on _warm-ish_ and a slight, green dampness in the air. The sky is grey, but not unpleasantly so.

It looks like rain.

Two car doors open and close, the sound echoing through the parking garage, bouncing off concrete walls. Seeley Booth locks the car as the two of them walk, outside and around the building to the front. A few misplaced raindrops fall onto the sidewalk, but no more; they don't walk inside just yet.

"You ready?" Booth asks, his voice quiet. The sounds of the city around them are muted, muffled.

Lance Sweets – twenty-seven years, ten months, and three days old – stands for a moment with his hands in his pockets and breathes in the air around him. He gently bites the edge of his lower lip and offers, "Well, if I'm not… It's a little late now, huh?"

Not quite true, but he supposes it doesn't quite matter. He could back out of the surgery last minute if he wanted to. He could walk inside and apologize to the doctors and shake his head and say, "No thanks. Not today." But he won't.

No, he won't do that.

Booth knows this just as well, so he smiles and agrees with him. "Yeah. Yeah, just a little late."

A bird chirps from somewhere far off before either of them says anything else.

"You're gonna be fine, Sweets. It'll go fine," Booth says, and the younger man just nods his head and looks away.

Before he can think of anything to say back, hands are pulling him into a rushed, near frantic hug; in a moment, Booth's arms are around his middle and his chin is on his shoulder, and it stretches on until they break apart.

It doesn't start raining until after they've finally gone inside.

* * *

He walks inside and sees his friends all collected in the lobby and thinks, see?

See the family you've got?

He thinks back to a time when he was healthy and alone. Back when he had April and his job and not much more than that. And soon after, he didn't even have April; she left his life, but somewhere along the line, he thinks that was a good thing.

He thinks he's happier now, anyway.

He supposes that things just come and go that way – people come and go. Largely, really, but that's quite alright. When people go, it's never for good. It's never complete. Regardless.

He hopes the people around him now stay for a very long time. He hopes that he does too.

* * *

They have him set up on a cot in a preparation room, just moments before everything is set to start. He's got his own scrubs on and another tube attached to his IV port and this one brief moment of reprieve.

Booth and Brennan are the only ones with him that aren't hospital staff. Nurses and technicians all come and go, some bringing forms for him to sign last minute, others kindly filling him in with details of preparation. His two friends, standing just to his right, are the only things constant.

Finally, the last form gets tucked away somewhere. The small collection of people moving about the room has been reduced to a single anesthesiologist, standing by the head of the bed.

"Alright, Lance, are you ready?" she says with a smile. "I'm here to administer your anesthesia, just like we discussed. Now just relax, I'm going to inject it into your IV. It'll take a few moments for you to start feeling it."

There's a hand on his shoulder that feels an awful lot like Booth's, and another, smaller one gently grabbing at his own free hand. He nods, just looking forward; he only hears the doctor moving behind him.

He hears the muted sound of it, the syringe sending the medication off – and as he does, for some reason he can't place, he is suddenly so aware of his own heart beating in his chest. It's irrational. He knows, but he feels the panic swell up in his chest and he takes a shuddering breath and asks, "Wait, wait, you're doing it now?"

A useless question. He knows the answer; he knows there's no turning back now, and the calm hum the doctor offers, the simple, "yes," just confirms it.

"Okay… okay," he says. He takes another breath. "Can you just – can you just remind me, how long does it last?"

"That really depends on the individual," she says kindly while another doctor appears by the curtain, quietly, politely instructing Booth and Brennan to head back into the lobby; hesitant, however – they don't move just yet.

"Okay, but – but how do you know –" his voice shakes. "How can you make sure that – that I'm going to wake up after? Or that I don't – wake up in the middle of… Dr. Brennan?"

He breathes her name because if there's anyone in the world that would have answers – ones he can trust completely – it's her. But instead of words, she rushes forward and hugs him as tight as she can, and as he returns it with all the strength he's got, he decides that that works just as well. Maybe even better than words.

He feels the drugs starting to work as she pulls away; she and Booth can see it, too. His eyes dilating just so, he lets himself lean back.

"I'm really sorry," the doctor says, then, "but we have to get Lance to the operating room."

Booth and Brennan nod, and as the cot starts to move as it's pushed, they both reach out – they grab Sweets' hand, his shoulder, both promising with their own respective words that he'll be just fine.

They promise that they'll all be just outside; they wouldn't leave for anything. And he'll be fine.

They finally follow the second doctor out towards the lobby, and as he closes his eyes, he decides that he believes them.

The drugs pull him under just as someone is strapping an oxygen mask over his face; he falls asleep to this, to the sound of wheels softly squeaking beneath him, to the sound of a larger door being pushed open. This is it.

He exhales, and is gone.

* * *

Brennan and Booth walk out into the lobby at a quarter past one, nearly to the dot, and find their place in a small group of friends in the corner of a waiting area.

He's fine, they tell everyone. Sweets is fine. Surgery is starting, and he's going to be fine.

"Yeah," Hodgins says, practically a whisper. "Yeah, but… what if he's not?"

It's a possibility they've all considered. In fact, going in – no one is quite sure what to expect. Yet another case of going in blind.

"If he's not…" Daisy starts, shifting in her seat next to Brennan. She sighs. "Then he's not. And someone will figure something out. We always do, at least."

She means the team. She means the incredible minds that have always managed to find a way through before. And she means Sweets.

"If there's anyone who can power through, it's Lance."

* * *

A woman in clean scrubs walks into the waiting area at around five o'clock; she goes largely unnoticed. People have been walking in and out all day, and if she hadn't called Booth's name, they'd have paid her no mind. But they look up.

Booth recognizes her. The surgeon Roden had recommended, the one he and Sweets met with just a few days before, is a slight woman with an experienced demeanor he trusts. He glances back at the rest of his friends for just a moment – and then he gets up and meets her by the door with a handshake and a rushed, "Hi."

"Hi, Mr. Booth, we've met before. I'm Doctor Shen. I wanted to inform you myself that Lance's surgery was completed about twenty minutes ago with minimal complication."

"Minimal?"

"Yes, we had to remove a very small part of his liver, mainly to ensure there wouldn't be any spread. That will repair itself in time, though."

"Right," Booth nods. "And – and the tumor. Is it…?"

The surgeon offers a smile.

"We _believe…_ that we were able to remove the entire tumor. It did take a little longer than expected, due to its tricky placement, but we removed the mass as a whole. We will need to do a few tests and scans to make sure there's no more evidence of disease… but as of right now, I feel confident calling it remission."

Booth only just realizes his mouth is open, his jaw dropped just slightly. He manages to turn it into a smile. He thanks her, and for more than just the news.

When he turns back to face his family, he's got tears in his eyes. He knows what that must suggest. So he walks over, back into a tense, apprehensive silence, and breaks it once he finally lets out the breath he'd been holding for so long.

"They did it," he grins. "They got it. He's going to be fine."

* * *

She wanted to stay, just for a little while. A short time on her own. And she says so.

"Okay… yeah, sure," Booth says, only hesitating slightly. "Just give me a call and I'll come back and pick you up."

Brennan just shakes her head. "No need, I'll take a cab. It's fine. Thanks."

And Booth goes, along with the others. Soon it's just her, sitting on an odd plastic chair with her legs crossed. Her right hand is holding Sweets' left, gently enough to not bother the port.

The nurses on the floor have told her already that it's past visiting hours, but as long as she's quiet, they don't mind her staying. But just for a little while. And she's got no problem with being quiet.

Sweets has been mostly asleep the whole time. Well. Mostly.

When he wakes up again, she knows it will only be for a few minutes. Barely noticing her at first, he pulls his hand from hers to rub his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"Careful," she whispers. "IV is still in."

Upon hearing her, he carefully drops his hands back to the bed and looks her way.

"Hey," he says with a sloppy grin. Brennan smiles back.

"Hey, Sweets."

He takes a moment to look around the room, to note his surroundings, before he closes his eyes again. He keeps them closed as he says, "I had surgery today." And the way he says it, it's caught between a question and a matter of fact. As if he's pretty sure it happened, but just needs to check.

"Yeah, you did have surgery," she confirms it. He opens his eyes again and looks right at her; she doesn't miss the dilation, even in the low light.

"Did they get it?" he asks, and she offers a quiet little chuckle at first. She feels bad about it at first, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"Yeah, Sweets, they got it. Remember?" she asks. "They told you when you came out, and we all came in to see you?" And again when he woke up the second time. This is the third time he's receiving the same good news, though he doesn't seem tired of it yet.

"That sounds right… that sounds…" he sighs, then, and smiles again. "There's no more cancer in me?"

She nods.

"That sounds good," he adds, and moves his free hand over his stomach, as if intent on checking for it himself. Brennan quickly, gently pulls his hand away.

"Don't do that, you'll hurt yourself. You just had surgery there," she warns, but it doesn't quite make sense to him yet.

"It doesn't hurt, though," he says.

"Yeah, it doesn't hurt because they're giving you painkillers," she explains with an amused smile. "See the bag hooked up to your IV? There's morphine in there."

He follows the line with his eyes before he sees it. "That's not chemo," he says. Another question-fact.

"You're right, it's not. It's just there to make you feel better. It won't make you sick or tired."

His eyes close again and he lets out a breath. "I am tired, though."

"You know what I mean," she adds. "Different kind of tired. It's late; it's been a long day. You should be asleep."

He hums his agreement. "So should you."

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I think… I think I'm going to go in a few minutes. I'm going home to sleep. But here –" she motions over to the nightstand, but he doesn't open his eyes to look. "We brought your things in, and your phone is plugged in right over here. So if you need something, call us. Okay?"

Another contented hum. "Okay."

"Okay," she says. Slowly, she stands from her chair and touches his hand once more. "Goodnight, Sweets. I'll see you tomorrow."

It takes a few moments before he smiles a small, lazy smile and says, "Goodnight, Dr. Brennan."

A pause.

"You know, Sweets," she says suddenly, just as she stands in the doorway. "I think… you can call me Bones. If you want to."

He turns his head to look at her one more time, and he smiles. "Nah… thanks. But that's not my thing."

She considers this. "Maybe we'll find a new nickname, then, if you want. One of these days."

Even exhausted – he thinks he'd be hard-pressed to call her anything but her title. It seems formal, professional, sure; but he stopped saying it that way a long time ago. Regardless.

Still, he offers her a smile as she goes and he starts to fall back asleep. He breathes.

"One of these days."

* * *

**End of Part 1: Impulse**


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm alive! :) So this chapter's not perfect, but it's been too long, so I'm posting anyway hahaha. This second part of the story, you'll notice, is meant to change pace from the last part. It's going to move a lot quicker. Thanks for still reading (hopefully)! Hope to hear from you guys (preferably via reviews, but I'm not too picky) super soon! Enjoy!

* * *

Part 2: Entropy / _lack of order or predictability; gradual decline into disorder_

* * *

**Week Thirty-Seven, Day One | August, 2013**

Lance Sweets is twenty eight years and seven days old.

That's what he's thinking about as Booth's car slows to a stop in front of his house. And it's something he hadn't put much thought into before: getting older. When he was younger, everything was this rush, a furious, impatient hurry to get older. After all, age meant independence. It meant achievement. With age, people would take him seriously.

Now he's grown tired of that rush. In twenty-eight years, he's lived a small lifetime. Everything he sought after had come with patience, with work, in time that now seems to move just a little too fast.

For the moment, though – it's no matter. He's twenty-eight years and seven days old, and just for today, that's all he will be. He is content with that.

But mostly, he's just content to be home. Back for the first time since last month, and cancer-free to boot, he patiently waits for Booth to kill the engine before jumping out of his seat.

He's appreciative, he's grateful, he's beyond thankful to have stayed with Booth and Brennan following his surgery; but if he wasn't itching to go home and be out of their figurative hair – no matter how much they claimed that wasn't the case – then he wouldn't be Lance Sweets.

Booth, on the other hand, takes his sweet time. He's in no rush because it's early in the Saturday afternoon, because they've got no ongoing case, because all of Sweets' scans came back clean. As far as he's concerned, they've got all the time in the world. At least between the car and the front door, they do.

The car locks as soon as the driver-side door swings shut, and they walk across the lawn that seems to have miraculously been trimmed. Sweets doesn't give it much thought at first, but as he steps from the grass to the walkway, he recalls that he never actually paid anyone to mow it. He certainly didn't do it himself; he makes a mental note to find out who did and thank them.

They step up to the porch, and with one hand, he fishes through the front pocket of his backpack for his keys and jams them into the lock a moment later. He jiggles the lock – because even though the house isn't that old, little things like that have been notoriously slacking – and turns his hand, but it jams nevertheless. He turns it back the other way, shakes the key out, tries again. With a satisfying _click,_ the door finally unlocks and he lets Booth and himself inside.

The lights turn on of their own accord.

"Surpriiiiiiiiise!"

With an audible intake of air, Sweets drops his bag – along with a casual expletive he will later deny – onto the floor as his heart jumps up into his throat.

Many, many people have suddenly gathered in his entryway. A smile spreads slowly across his face; his heart calms back down.

It's a party, of course. He laughs because he should have known but didn't, but that hardly matters. So he smiles, he laughs, and joins in the fun.

* * *

After a short time, Christine runs her two-year-old version of a run over to where he's standing in the kitchen and bounces excitedly, with a piece of yellow construction paper in one hand and her mother's finger in the other. Brennan is bent over slightly to the side to hold her hand, and she smiles at Sweets as she announces, "Miss Christine has something for you."

"Oh yeah?"

He squats down, and Christine – grinning in her purple polka dot dress, with her little hair pulled back into two tiny pigtails – thrusts a page of nondescript crayon doodles his way.

"I made this!" she shouts happily. "Happy buhthday!"

He grins wide at the colors at the page and says, "Thank you _very,_ very much, cutie. You know," he stands up for just a moment to fish a roll of tape from a kitchen drawer. "I think this is the best picture I have ever seen." He tapes it right up on the refrigerator as Christine beams proudly. Once he's done, he squats back down.

"Can I have a hug, cutie pie?" he asks, spreading his arms wide, and the two year old happily obliges as well as she can; she comes forward and ducks her head into his shoulder and grabs his neck and climbs halfway up on his left knee, almost as if she'd wanted to be lifted up but then changed her mind. She even throws in a tiny, half-puckered kiss to his cheek. "Oh, thank you!"

"Ya welcome!" she grins, bounces a few more times, and goes back to play.

* * *

At first, Sweets wonders how Booth was able to find them; but then he figures that _of course_ Booth was able to find them. He's an investigator. Of homicides, sure, but given the right information and resources, he could find practically anything.

The White family included, Sweets supposes. He's only really mentioned them offhand, on occasion, and even then, he'd never have much information to share. Not as if he was hiding them, of course – after all, what was there to tell? Still. He is both surprised and not-surprised as he shakes Oliver's hand, and is graced with a hug from Queen Aurelia.

He even gets to finally meet Clara, who – like her now-four year old daughter – is a beautiful mess of curly hair; although, unlike her daughter's, it's dusty blonde, and pulled up into a neat half-bun. She smiles beautifully when she greets him; it's a pleasure to meet her, he says. And as he gets a good look at her, he notes what he suddenly sees.

"You're expecting?" he says, half a question, half an exclamation. Clara's would-be tiny belly swells out just so, giving the impression of a clear – if relatively early – pregnancy. But instead, she sheepishly knits her eyebrows and shakes her head.

"Um," she pauses. "I'm actually not…."

Sweets feels his ears go hot red with embarrassment, especially as he looks to Oliver and finds him looking purposefully away. Perhaps he shouldn't have said anything at all – so he rushes to backtrack.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't –"

But then they cut him off; it seems that the Whites don't have it in them to torture him for that long. Oliver and Clara quickly erupt into laughter.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" Clara says. "Of course, I am expecting! Little girl's due in February."

Sweets, he sighs in relief. "Man, you almost gave me a heart attack! Congratulations!"

And Oliver, once he finally stops laughing, puts an arm around his wife and says, "Thanks, Sharkbait. Looks like life really doesn't stop, huh?"

* * *

He'd lasted a little longer than he thought he would, but regardless – by the time six o'clock comes and goes, despite the party still ongoing, Sweets finds himself flopping down on his bed, still dressed, and shoving his face in his pillow. He tells himself it's just for the moment, but if he's honest, he'd much prefer to stay right where he is for the rest of the night. He loves each and every one of the people downstairs, but hell if he isn't bone-tired by now.

A short one month distance from major surgery will do that, he supposes.

Sighing softly through his nose, he eventually forces himself back up. If he's going to cave and go to sleep this early, the least he could do is plug in his phone and brush his teeth. Maybe change into something other than slacks and a button-down.

So he digs his charger out from his bag and plugs it in by the nightstand before heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Thankfully it's not a far walk; one of the better things about losing his roommates was that he could move into the "master" bedroom, where a bathroom is attached right on. Call it a perk.

A few minutes pass and he emerges with a set of clean teeth. He starts toward his dresser, but a hesitant knock on the half-open bedroom door stops him before he gets there. A pause.

"Yeah?" his voice isn't rough or hoarse or gone; just tired, like the rest of him. Just quiet.

The head that pokes into the room, it's Daisy's. And he smiles as soon as he sees her, because he hadn't had much time to speak with her downstairs – what, with people coming at him from all sides with questions and well-wishes and congratulations.

"Hi," she says. He told himself he'd call her in the morning, but he decides that this is better. "Can I come in?"

He smiles. "Well, I'm certainly not gonna make you stand in the hallway. Yeah, come in."

She does. She comes in and sits on the bed, and once she assures Sweets that she doesn't care if he changes while she's here, he switches into soft pants and an old tee shirt and joins her there. They sit side by side on his usual side of the mattress.

A silence passes between them before Sweets asks.

"Something on your mind, Miss Daisy?"

The look on her face is pensive, bordering on troubled. Her eyes are cast down to the floor.

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, but… I don't think there's any way to say it without making it about me. I don't know, maybe it just is about me… but I don't want it to be about me."

He considers this for a moment, and in the end, he just nudges her shoulder with his and smiles. "I don't mind talking about you. I like you. Besides, I think it'd be a nice change of pace."

He says, sitting on his own bed, in his own bedroom, above his own party. Over the past few months, Sweets knows he's been quite the topic: that too-young FBI psychologist with cancer, did you hear? Apparently his cancer's pretty rare. He got put on leave because he couldn't really handle it. Apparently, the treatment stopped working.

And now, suddenly it's gone. Now he's back. Almost, sort of. Still.

He's tired of his own narrative.

"I mean," she chuckles. "It's also about you. So don't think you're off the hook."

And he sighs a long, dramatic sigh he hasn't got the energy for and says, "Fine, fine. Shoot."

A pause.

"I wanted to… apologize. Because, you know – I've been thinking a lot, about you and about this, and I can't help thinking that… I don't know, that I haven't really been – _there –_ enough."

He wants to interrupt, to interject, but thinks better of it.

"You know, in the beginning, right when you told me you had cancer, I told you I'd be there for you. I just don't feel like I've owned up to that, I feel guilty, and I know this must sound like I'm trying to assuage myself of it, but I really just…"

She sighs.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry I haven't been the friend I should have been. And if there's – if there's any way I can make that up to you… I'd like to."

She trials off, and the resulting silence is long and drawn out until – finally – Daisy glances sidelong at her ex-boyfriend. Ex-fiancé. Ex-boyfriend again – and current friend. Lance is looking forward, just toward the wall, with his head cocked to the side. He gently bites his bottom lip, thinking. Thoughtful.

The stress, the anticipation, they nearly make her blurt out again. They nearly push her to just say something else, something that would make him understand, because she's not entirely convinced she explained it well enough, but then he looks her way. He understands perfectly.

He just disagrees, is all.

"You know, you say that," he says, pulling his legs up so he's sitting crisscross on the bed, "like we didn't just talk for two hours a week ago."

"Yeah, I know, but that was –"

"About _Star Trek into Darkness_ and your sister's new dog and not anything important?" she nods carefully, and he grins. "Well, you should know – just because a conversation's not about cancer, doesn't mean it's not important."

His phone vibrates from its place on the nightstand, and all he does is glance at it. A text from Booth tells him that – in spite of it only being seven o'clock – the party is wrapping up. People should be gone within the hour. It's the typical _see you soon_ and _let me know if you need anything._ All it is is typical at this point.

"I know that when someone – when someone close to you is sick or hurting, sometimes it's tough to think about anything else. Maybe by addressing it more, by talking about it more, it'll help, but here's the thing: I'm sick of that." He offers half a laugh and gestures to his phone. "Like, take Booth for example. He's helped me _so_ much, and I'm beyond grateful. But I don't really remember the last time we spoke about anything that's not cancer-related."

And Daisy, she nods like she understands, but he's not quite done.

"Look, I _know_ I can talk to you about my cancer. I know that if I need you, you're there for me. And talking about movies or family or anything else at – what, one in the morning? – _is_ being there for me. I don't just want to talk about cancer. I like talking to you. I don't care what it's about. You haven't been as absent as you think."

He takes a breath.

"And you should know that you're allowed to feel things, too; not just me. Your feelings are just as important as mine. Just as valid. Alright?"

She smiles.

"Alright."

Her eyes are still bright green. They wouldn't have changed, he knows, but still – even in low light, he notices them again. For the thousandth time since he first saw her.

There's so much compassion in those green eyes, he can feel it in his chest.

"So…" she starts, after a long stretch of silence. "Something else, then?"

He smiles.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think – I think it's time for a change."

* * *

Lance Sweets and Daisy Wick, they've always been unpredictable, right from the start. So much so – that now they've become _predictably_ unpredictable.

There's a pattern here. There's a pattern of coming together, breaking apart, and coming back again, and even the psychologist can't exactly place it. Even he can't explain why.

The first time they broke up and got back together, he chalked it up to history. Because in his mind, he always knew breakups were supposed to be permanent, that ephemeral, inconsistent relationships were ill fated, but every time he looked at her he remembered the first time he saw her. He remembered first dates and first kisses and all the brilliant, shiny moments that made her worth it.

The second time, he figured, breaking up had been a mistake. What better way to rectify it, then? They could slide back together, easily and gently, fall back into the same familiar rhythm like nothing ever happened, and for a while, it was alright.

It was alright because he loved her. It was alright because she loved him.

It didn't last because something wasn't right. Timing, communication, expectations – whatever it was, it was the reason why they weren't living together when he got cancer. It was the reason why they were friends – good friends, but not much more.

Now?

Now they don't know what to call themselves.

Now, one thing leads to another, leads to another, leads to another. A hesitant knock on the door somehow leads to the two of them, shirts off, lying together under the sheets with tired lips and wound-up minds.

Half asleep, Lance has no idea how it happened. He has no idea how she could even still be attracted to him, really, and that's not meant to be self-deprecation; it's genuine curiosity. Combine the fact that he's still underweight with his head of barely there peach-fuzz hair. Combine them with the strangest timing, the odd sort of semi-calm of tonight, and they have a mystery.

"We didn't work," he says suddenly, and not as if he's only just realizing it.

"We didn't work."

Her head is resting gently on his collarbone, and he doesn't need to open his eyes to know she's wide awake.

A long moment passes between them in faux-silence. Soft chatter echoes through the house; the floors creak and doors swing on their hinges and drawers and cabinets open and close. That's the party ending, things getting put away, people leaving. The door is shut, locked, and they are alone.

"I want us to work."

A pause; a nod; a sad smile.

"I want us to work too."

It is nearing eight o'clock on a warm Saturday night, and the sun – miraculously – has yet to dip completely below the horizon. It's not all dark just yet, but that doesn't stop sleep from tugging at him.

"So…" she says after a long while. "Where does that – where does that leave us?"

And what he does is offer a quiet, near contented sigh. What he does is give her a tired smile. What he does is enjoy her company. Because among many, many things – he loves her company.

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head.


End file.
